Grandmère didn’t look very hopeful, but she went off to get Jeanne to ring for tea, while Dad stood there, looking down at me. My dad’s not really used to seeing me cry like that. I mean, I’ve cried in front of him plenty of times—most recently over the summer when we were at a state function at the palace and I walked into a low-hanging roof beam while wearing my tiara and the combs dug into my head like tiny knives.
But he is not used to me having dramatic emotional outbursts, because for the most part over the past few years, with a few notable exceptions, things have been going fairly well, and I have been able to keep it together.
Until now.
I just kept on bawling, and reaching for tissues from the box on the end table by the couch. In between wails, it all kind of poured out, about the Precious Gift and Judith Gershner and the snowflake necklace and how Michael had come to school to see me and instead saw me kissing J.P.
I have to admit, Dad loo
ked pretty stunned. I don’t really talk about, you know, sex with my dad, because, um, ew.
And I could tell the Precious Gift thing was freaking him out, because he sank down onto the end of the couch like he had kind of lost the ability to stand up. And he just sat there listening to me until I finally wound down and couldn’t talk anymore and was just sitting there, blowing my nose, the worst of the tears over.
Only when I’d cleaned up most of the snot from my face did Dad think of something to say. And when he did, it was NOT what I was expecting.
“Mia,” Dad said somberly. “I think you’re making a mistake.”
I couldn’t believe it! I’d basically just told him that Michael is a man-slut! You would think my own father would want me to stay far away from a man-slut! What was he TALKING about, a mistake?
“True romantic love really doesn’t come around that often,” he went on. “When it does, it’s foolish to throw it away because of some silly thing the object of your affections did before the two of you were even dating.”
I just stared at him. I don’t think it was my imagination that he looked so much like the elf king in The Lord of the Rings.
If the elf king had been totally bald, I mean.
“It’s even more foolish to let someone you feel that strongly about go—at least, not without a fight. That’s something I did once,” Dad went on, after clearing his throat. “And I’ve always regretted it, because the truth is, I never met anyone I felt that way about ever again. I don’t want to see you make my same mistake, Mia. So think—really think—about what you’re doing. I wish I had.”
Then he got up to leave for his meeting at the UN.
I just sat there, completely stunned. Was that speech supposed to have HELPED me? Because it so didn’t.
Dad should have just gotten Lars to shoot me. That’s the only way I’ll ever be put out of this misery.
Friday, September 10, the Four Seasons
The tea is here. Grandmère is making me pour. She is going on about some argument she once had with Elizabeth Taylor about whether or not pantsuits are proper attire for women attending afternoon tea. Elizabeth Taylor thinks they are. Grandmère thinks not (no surprise there).
Something is bothering me. I mean something besides the fact that my boyfriend and I are broken up because he slept with Judith Gershner, and that an hour or so ago he caught me making out (well, sort of) with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend.
I can’t stop thinking about Dad’s little speech. You know, the one about how he once let someone he cared about go without a fight. He’d just looked so…sad.
And my dad is not really a sad sort of guy. I mean, would YOU be sad, if you were a prince and had Gisele Bündchen’s private cell phone number?
Which is why I interrupted Grandmère’s tirade against pantsuits to ask if she knew who Dad was talking about.
“Someone he cared about and let go without a fight?” Grandmère looked thoughtful. “Hmmm. It could have been that housewife woman….”
“Grandmère,” I said. “That thing in Us Weekly about Dad dating Eva Longoria was just a rumor.”
“Oh. Well, then I have no idea. The only woman I’ve ever known him to mention more than once is your mother. And that, of course, is because she’s your mother. If it weren’t for you, of course, he’d never have seen her again, once she turned down his proposal. Which, of course, was the stupidest mistake SHE ever made. Saying no to a prince? Pfuit! Of course, it was a good thing in the end. Your mother would never have fit in at the palace. Pass the Sweet ’n Low, please, Amelia.”
God. That is so weird. Who could it have been, then? I mean, who could my dad have cared about that he let walk away? Who—
Friday, September 10, the steps outside of the Four Seasons
I can’t believe this. How stupid I’ve been, I mean.
Dad tried to tell me. EVERYONE tried to tell me. But I was just so STUPID—