Page 67 of The Frog Prince
“I live in San Francisco.”
“Where?” I let go, step back, glance at Gorgeous Guy and then Katie. “She’s from Visalia, too.” I can’t stop beaming at her. “Do you live near here?”
“Up the street, three blocks over,” she says, pointing toward Lombard. But Katie’s not alone. She’s with a friend she introduces as Kirk. Alex stands up, and we all shake hands.
With introductions over, I turn immediately back to Katie. It’s been so long since I last saw her… seven years… eight… incredible.
“So how are you?” I ask for what seems like the fifth time.
“Good,” Katie answers. “Really good. And you?”
“Great.” I’m still grinning. I can’t help it. These past few weeks have been really hard, and tonight was just the worst, and when I feel at my lowest, Kate Robinson appears. Kate—Katie—and I go way back, to all those geeky years when we washed our faces with Noxzema and slapped on Clearasil like it was going out of style.
“When did you return to California?” I ask. She’d moved away in the middle of our senior year. Her father had been transferred to the East Coast—Boston? Philadelphia? (It’s terrible, but all those places sound the same to West Coasters.) And even though she’d begged to finish her year at Redwood, her parents had decided it’d be in the best interests of the family to move everyone at once. So they’d all gone, Katie and her three younger brothers.
My God.Katie.Katie Robinson.
And she’s even more gorgeous than before, less wholesome, more sophisticated; cheekbones have emerged from adolescent baby fat; her eyebrows are darker; her blond hair highlighted and precision cut. She looks like the ultimate California girl, even though she’s New Jersey born and partially bred.
“Two years ago. I work for Intel, but here in the city.”
Alex is still standing, but he’s reaching for the coat he’d slung over the back of his chair. “Sounds like you guys have a lot to catch up on. I’ll let you chat, but, Holly, can I get your number?”
I think he’s joking and then I see he’s got a pen out and a scrap of paper with his number on it. I tear off the part with his number and then write my number on the other part. I look at him and think he’s so out of my league—I mean, he is Gorgeous Guy after all—but I hand him my number, knowing he’ll never call, knowing he’s just trying to be nice since I was bawling my eyes out.
And then he’s gone, gorgeous Alex walking out the door.
Katie is riffling through her purse, digging out a business card. “Kirk and I are on our way to a comedy club; he’s got front-row tickets, so we can’t be late.” She pulls out a pen and scribbles a number on the back of her card. “But call me in the morning. Let’s get drinks tomorrow night or meet on Sunday for brunch.”
“Great.” I put her card in my pocket but don’t let go. It’s a lifeline, something good from my past, something good in my present. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
She and Kirk are heading to the door. “Don’t forget!” Katie shouts to me, raising her hand to her ear, thumb and pinkie extended. “Call me.”
ChapterTwelve
Katie and Imeet for brunch Sunday morning. Brunch in the city is still something new to me. Growing up, we didn’t belong to any country clubs, and brunch wasn’t something we did as a family. It’s not that Mom didn’t ever make a big breakfast late in the morning, but there was no rushing out of the house on a Sunday if it wasn’t for church. And after church there was usually housework and yard work to do. Not brunching.
But I swear, everyone in San Francisco does it, and on a nice day like today, dozens of people cluster outside every city café, talking, scrolling on their phones, reading newspapers or novels, while waiting to be seated.
We put our name on the wait list and stand outside our corner café with everyone else. Lots of people wearing black, and leather barn coats, turtlenecks, boots, jeans, cords. I’m wearing a skirt. I don’t know why I’m wearing a skirt. Maybe it’s the old good-girl upbringing. Good girls don’t wear jeans to church; good girls dress nicely for social occasions; good girls try to make an effort.
Or just possibly, good girls don’t know any better.
Katie’s telling me about her work. She travels a lot for business, is on the road a couple of weeks every month, but she likes the travel, loves accumulating mileage points, because it allows her to keep up with her friends on both coasts. She’s between boyfriends at the moment but isn’t worried, since there always seems to be someone new on the horizon.
A cool breeze blows, and I hug my coat tighter. “You like dating,” I say, torn between admiration and horror as the restaurant door bangs open and a big group leaves. How cananyonelike to date?
“Dating’s fun. It’s an adventure. You never know what’s going to happen.”
I flash back to my last two dates—my first two dates in years, and both scored very high on the Richter scale of horrible encounters. I’d have to give Tom a 6.8 or 6.9 for yucky company, and Paul… oh, he gets at least a 7.3, maybe even a 7.6, for boorish behavior and the booster seat request. Men should never ask for a booster seat on a date. That might be fine when you’re out with Mom, but not with another woman. “And you like that feeling?”
Katie, who is wearing jeans, a dark turtleneck, and a suede coat, shrugs. She looks urban. Hip.Cool.How did she learn to do that? “Why not?” she answers, tucking straight blond hair behind her ear. “It’s fun meeting new people, getting to see if you’re going to click or not.”
I really wish I hadn’t worn a skirt. “I never click.”
“Then you haven’t been out enough. Dating’s like the lottery. You’ve got to up your chances of winning by entering more times.”
The black restaurant door opens again, and the hostess comes out, calls our name, and we get seated inside at one of the little tables next to the window. Normally a window seat is ideal, but today it means we get our sunlight blocked by a half-dozen people on the other side of the glass.