Page 63 of The Frog Prince

A call of need, a call of desperation.

I phone Jean-Marc. Late on a Friday night, no less. Even worse, he picks up.

Jean-Marc is quiet on the other end of the line, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far, said too much, sounded too broken, too exposed, too pathetic.

I know the worst mistake is ever to need too much, and yet I need too much.

This much I know.

I’m the way I am because I feel so hollow, and the only way to fill the emptiness is by getting something.

Something like attention. Something like warmth. Something like… love.

I’ve read all the magazines and books you’ve read, watched the same TV shows, too. I know what the experts and talk show doctors say. No one will ever love me the way I need to be loved. No one will ever want me the way I want. No one will ever give me everything, so I’ve got to do it for myself. I have to like myself more. Have to love myself so no one else will ever have to do that job.

But I want someone to do that job. I want someone who will find it not a job but a pleasure. Someone who will want me, like me just because I’m likable.

“Maybe it’d be better if you didn’t call anymore.” Jean-Marc sounds quiet, distant, so coolly, completely detached. I say nothing. I’m pressing my nails into the palms of my hands. Not call? “I don’t—” My voice breaks. He hasn’t been a proper lover, proper husband, proper anything at all, but he’s still somehow important. Significant.

He ties me to a life I don’t have anymore, the life I’d thought I wanted, the life I thought I was getting.

“It’d probably be better,” he says, and I wonder how he could say that. Better for whom?

Him?

And I see him—us—on our first date, the beautiful French restaurant, the champagne he’d ordered, and me sitting there smiling like a fool as the bubbles rose up inside me, dancing in my head even as the bubbles fizzed and popped out of my flute onto the back of my hand. It was magic: the place, the night, the dreams.

I even remember what I wore—a turquoise silk blouse, black leather, pants, something sparkly at my ears—and I felt just as sparkly on the inside, felt beautiful and together as if the world were my oyster.

“You don’t want me to call anymore.”

“I just don’t think it helps. You always get upset and I—”

I hang on his words, wondering, hoping, wanting him to finally say something that will help, something that will make sense.

“You’re using me as a crutch,” is what he does say. “But I can’t help you adjust. I can’t help you through this.”

“Why not?” And this time I can’t keep the anger to myself. “Why not, Jean-Marc? You helped make this.”

He makes a rough sound in his throat, very guttural, very French. I’ve heard my favorite French actors do this, and they sound intelligent, gorgeous, sexy, but it makes me see red now.

“You are a part of this,” I say, and I’m practically shouting. “You married me. Whether you like it or not. You walked me down the aisle. You said the words ‘I do.’ You put the ring on my finger—”

“Only because you wanted me to.”

I grab for air, mouth opening wide.

“You pushed,” he continues, his voice bitter, more bitter than I’ve ever heard before. “You pushed and pushed and there you are, living in my house, sleeping in my bed, and what was I to do? Hmm? Tell me, Holly, what was I to do?”

Love me. BegladI was in your house, sleeping in your bed.

My eyes sting, and I look away, can’t focus, turn my head the opposite direction, trying to escape the pain inside me. I did this. I did this. I did this.

But how?

“I loved you,” I say at last, and the words are almost • laughable between us. What the hell does “love” mean? What the hell does love do?

“Holly, you’re a good girl, a sweet girl, but I didn’t ever…” He sighs. “Cherie, I didn’t love you.”