Page 95 of The Frog Prince
It’s been such a long, hard year. Make that a long, hard couple of years.
I’m ready for easier. I’m ready for simpler. I’m ready to get back to my desk and get my work done.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” Jean-Marc asks, breaking the silence. “I saw a Starbucks down the road. I know how much you like that place.”
He’s being conciliatory, and he knows this and I know this, because Starbucks was always a bone of contention between us. Jean-Marc likes small European-style coffeehouses, and my love for Starbucks (and my Starbucks Visa card) irritated him beyond belief.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Just a half hour, Holly.”
“Why?”
He looks puzzled, and for a moment I feel almost sorry for him. He went out of his way to come by the office today, and he’s suggested Starbucks, and clearly something’s on his mind. But what?
Yet he shrugs, one of his famous Gallic shrugs. “It just seems like a nice thing to do.”
Is that what this is about, then? Beingnice?
I nearly spit in disgust. He broke my heart—crushed me just weeks after marrying me—and he wants to be nice now?
Maybe I don’t want to be nice. Maybe I want to be rude, hurtful,cruel. But nothing particularly rude, hurtful, or cruel comes to mind.
I get my purse and coat, and we take the elevator down in silence until we step out onto the street. Parked a half block down is his slate gray Citroen. I used to love that car. We pass his car, head for the Starbucks. We could have gone to Mr. J’s, but I see no point. That’s a cool, funky place, and it’s where I met Brian. I won’t ruin the memory by getting coffee with Jean-Marc there.
At the counter inside, Jean-Marc orders an espresso, and I get a white-chocolate mocha. With whipped cream. I look at Jean-Marc, daring him to remind me about the calorie content as he used to, but he doesn’t.
He takes our cups to a table, and we sit in the corner overlooking the sidewalk and parking lot. Just weeks ago the trees outside were nearly all bare, but little green tufts have begun to protrude from the branches, bright bits of spring green in tender shoots and tiny leaves.
“So what brings you here?” I ask after we’ve lapsed into silence for a second time. “You’re not getting married again, are you?”
He looks at me, surprised. “How did you know?”
He’s getting married.
I stare at him, jaw dropping, absolutely dumbfounded. Jean-Marc is getting married already?
“You didn’t know,” he says now, reading my shock.
I slowly shake my head, throat working, but no sound comes out.
He grimaces. “I know our divorce was final only a couple of months ago, but I met someone last summer, and she’s great. A really nice girl.”
There’s that “nice” again, and I’m so sick of it I could scream. But I don’t. Because I am nice, too. Even if I don’t want to be, even if I resent and resist everything the word represents.
“And she’s pregnant,” he adds, looking up at me.
“But you didn’t want kids,” I whisper, feeling strange, feeling torn. I don’t love him now, but I did. I wouldn’t marry him knowing what I know now, but two years ago I thought he was wonderful.
“I know.” He makes another face. “It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t what I wanted. Believe me.”
I do. Jean-Marc and I had some serious battles near the end, and the issue of children came up again and again. And sitting there with my white-chocolate mocha, I exhale, a short, hard breath that leaves my chest feeling hollow. Empty.
“So why marry her?” I ask carefully. “Why do what you obviously don’t want to do?”
He runs a hand through his thick hair, features tightening. “She needs me.”
And I didn’t?