Page 78 of The Frog Prince

This is going to hurt him; I know it will, but I can’t keep ignoring what I feel. Or what I need. “Brian, I like you. I do.” I take a quick breath. “But I’m not ready for this. I need time. Time to sort things out.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth curving. “I know you do.”

He hesitates, then kisses me in the middle of my forehead before lifting me off his lap and putting me on my feet. He rises, reaches for his coat. “But when you’re ready to date, call me.”

“Okay.”

For a moment he hesitates at my door, and I feel odd—prickly, emotional, sad—but this isn’t about him; it’s about me. About the things I have to learn and understand and do.

His mouth quirks again, and then he’s gone, and the door shuts. I’m alone.

I realize, as Brian’s footsteps echo outside, that I’m alone because I want to be.

I’m alone because it’s what I need for me.

ChapterFourteen

It’s strange whena week goes by without a single e-mail from Brian.

It’s what I wanted, but suddenly my life does seem a little lonelier. Brian and I had been e-mailing quite a bit lately, and it was nice getting his quirky notes once or twice a day. He always made me smile, and I looked forward to the interruption, but at the same time I didn’t want to be leaning on him like the proverbial crutch.

The whole point is that I have to—as unpleasant as it sometimes seems—stand on my own two feet. I’ve got to be okay without a man. I think of my mom, and shesaysshe is, but is she really?

If you know the story of Snow White and Rose Red, two sisters, daughters of a poor widow, you’ll recognize my mom. She’s the Snow White sister, the one the story describes as quiet and gentle, who sat at home with her mother and helped her in the household, or read aloud to her when there was no work to do. That’s my mother. A woman who keeps her cottage beautifully clean and is unfailingly cheerful. A good, sweet woman deserving of a prince.

But to get princes, Snow White and her sister Rose Red had to be so good. They had to make sure there were always roses in vases on tables. The copper kettle had to shine. The floor had to be immaculate. And the girls had to be gentle, loving, obedient.

Obedient.

I’m sorry, but that sounds awful. Those stories teach that love is reserved for those who sacrifice themselves, rather, like the beautiful ballerina from “The Steadfast Tin Soldier,” who burns up with her guy at the end, symbolizing true love. I don’t think so. One shouldn’t have to die—physically or psychologically—for love. Love should be about strength, not weakness. Empowerment, not dependence.

Shouldn’t it?

*

Katie’s back intown, and Friday night we go out for happy hour and have such a good time that Katie calls me up Saturday morning, insisting that I go clubbing with her, her buddy Kirk, and a few others. I haven’t been to a club, or dancing, in so long I feel like my grandma Bishop, but I’m still basking in the glow of a successful Friday night happy hour so I agree.

I spend a long time Saturday evening trying to figure out what I’m supposed to wear for a club. Most of those places are dark, so I figure anything black will do, and make a huge fashion statement with black jeans, a low-cut black top, and black belt and boots.

Studying myself in the mirror, I know, even without anyone’s help, that this is a wrong look for me.

I change out of black jeans and try the top with regular jeans, and it’s better. Far from snazzy, but knowing the contents of my closet, I’m forced to accept that “snazzy” isn’t part of its vocabulary. “Safe” is. As is “boring.” “Predictable.” Which is what we’ll do tonight.

I make an effort with my hair, try to do something interesting with earrings, and head outside as soon as my phone rings, letting me know Katie’s in the drive.

But I’m not fast enough for Katie, and she leans on the car horn once, twice, and as I run out of my apartment, I see Cindy pull back the blinds upstairs and stare out. I can just picture the note I’ll get beneath my door later:Holly, per contract, section3a of IIb, no cars in driveway and no honking. This is your last and final warning. Next infraction will result in an immediate impounding of family and friends.

But once we’re out, I forget all about Cindy and her rules and just have fun. Kirk, it turns out, is a part-time DJ, part-time journalist (he writes for a popular magazine in the city), and knows everyone, including the bouncer, who lets us scoot past those waiting in line, straight into the club’s VIP room.

The club is thumping, the heavy bass vibrating the floor as we take the stairs up to the private lounge.

I’ve never been in a VIP lounge, and while Kirk offers to buy the first round and goes in search of the cocktail waitress, I sink into one of the low purple velvet couches with scarlet silk throw pillows, thinking that I’ve finally arrived.

That is, until I look around and see lots of girls with really great tans, bare legs, tiny skirts, and painfully high heels. It’s like a Paris Hilton convention, and I’m Paris’s chaperone.

(Furious Note to Self: jeans and black top aren’t cool club clothes after all.)

Kirk returns with martini-style cocktails: cucumber cosmo—not my favorite drink by a long shot, but he paid for them and I’m not about to look any more fuddy-duddy by turning my nose up at the drink of the hour.