Page 71 of The Frog Prince

I stop bythe gym on the way home and jog away on the treadmill. I will never be a real runner, but today I’m so restless that I can’t seem to stop moving. By the time I’m finished, I’ve run for nearly thirty-five minutes, a new record for me.

At home I boil water for Cup O’ Noodles and try to settle down with a cable movie but can’t relax. Cup O’ Noodles is not a satisfying dinner. I want chewy and chocolate, like frosted brownies, but have only peanut butter on my shelves, so I spread some of that on crackers.

I need to grocery-shop.

And I need to buy a desktop computer for my apartment. I spread more peanut butter on another cracker, thinking about the computer I used to have in Fresno, an old laptop that Jean-Marc gave me but took back when we parted. That was so cheap, I think, chomping on my cracker. He had a computer at the university, a brand-new laptop in his study at home. He didn’t need his old one. He didn’t have to take it back.

Jerk.

*

Another week goesby, and I manage to get into the gym only twice, but walking through my neighborhood one evening I notice that the small flower shop is still open, and I purchase a big bouquet of lilies and gerbera daisies for my apartment.

I keep sniffing the sweet, heady fragrance of the lilies as I walk back to my apartment. I’m feeling really cosmopolitan at the moment. Single city girl doing her shopping, buying fresh sourdough bread at the corner bakery, and flowers on her way home…

I hum a little and smile at people as I pass them.

I’m doing okay, I think. I’m actually beginning to like living on my own.

*

Brian Fadden andI have been talking on the phone for a few minutes every couple of days for the past week, and our sporadic, brief e-mails have gotten more frequent, as well as longer.

Today I get an e-mail from Brian asking if I want to get a beer with him after work.

The e-mail couldn’t have come at a better time; after another weekend alone, I’ve reached that desperation point. The point where almost anything is better than nothing, where Monday night beer nights are better than Monday night going home after a bad day at work and sitting alone.

I know that in general, Monday night dollar-beer nights are best avoided. Monday nights are not great date nights, but when you’re sitting there at your desk at ten thirty on Monday morning and you hate your desk and hate your cubicle and hate the computer and hate that you have to work and that you’re going to be sitting here for the next five days, a date for that evening actually sounds good.

Fun.

Why the hell not? I ask myself, staring at the computer screen, studying Brian’s e-mail invitation. I don’t feel like going to the gym after work. Mondays are already long enough and hard enough, and I don’t really want to go home to an empty apartment: And Brian’s e-mails are fabulous. Brilliant. The guy has a way with words.

I chew on my thumb, stare at the screen, insides warm and fizzy. I love the warm fizzies. But is it Brian giving me the warm fizzies, or his cleverness? I’ve always liked dry humor, smart men, but am I physically attracted to him?

It is just drinks at this point. I mean, Brian doesn’t have to be “the one,” but of course I always wonder when I meet a man, is he possibly Mr. Right?

And Brian does fit the requirements for a Mr. Right (not that I’m looking). He’s clever in e-mail, funny over the phone, educated, sophisticated,andhe knows how to make me laugh.

But what would he be like in bed?

I close my eyes, try to remember what he looks like. Tall—I remember that much—broad-shouldered, relatively lean. Basketball-player build. Athletic. And if he’s athletic, he’d probably be quite comfortable with his body. In bed.

That’d be good.

I e-mail back: “Okay. Meet you there at 7.”

He replies almost immediately, and we’ve got plans. I’m thrilled this is just drinks, not dinner. Dinner means serious conversation, requiring a level of sincerity not necessary for drinks.

Dinner means possible romance, while drinks mean light, nonthreatening… fun.

ChapterThirteen

Drinks with Brianare fun.

He isn’t exactly as I remembered. He’s actually leaner and taller—much taller—but the conversation is light, easy, with lots of banter. On our second beer (we’ve now spent a total of four dollars), Brian asks me about the ball. “How are the plans coming?”

“So-so. We’ve picked up a couple of sponsors, and I’ve got a small piece coming out in the San Mateo paper, but that’s it.”