This just made me cry harder, remembering how I’d kissed J.P. in the hallway, right in front of Michael. I hadn’t meant to, of course—but what did that matter? The damage was done. Michael was never going to speak to me again. I just knew it.

The fact that I so desperately wanted him to, in spite of everything that had happened between us, was what was making me cry hardest of all.

“I think I know what she needs,” Grandmère went on, as I continued to wail.

“Her mother?” Dad asked hopefully.

Grandmère shook her head. “Bourbon. Does the trick every time.”

Dad frowned. “I think not. But you might have your maid ring for some hot tea. Maybe that will help.”

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 looked 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 inThe 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—reallythink —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 inUs 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—

But I can fix this. I KNOW I can. I just have to get to him before he gets on the plane, and I’ll tell him—

Well, I don’t know what I’ll tell him. But I’ll figure it out when I see him. If I can just smell his neck one more time, I know—I KNOW—everything will be all right.

And that I’ll know what to tell him when I see him.

IF I can get to him before he gets on the plane. Because it’s the middle of the afternoon and my dad’s got the limo over at the UN, which means Lars and I have to take a cab, only we can’t find one because they’ve all seemed to have disappeared, which is ALWAYS what happens when you really need one, which is why shows likeSex and the City can be so bogus sometimes, because those girls ALWAYS get a cab, and the fact is, there are just way more people who need cabs than there are cabs and

WHAT AM I GOING TO SAY TO HIM????

God, I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. How stupid and blind and dumb and ignorant and judgmental and WHAT DOES IT MATTER???? Seriously, what does any of it MATTER, when I love him, and I’ll never love anyone else, and it’s not like he cheated on me and WHY AREN’T THERE ANY CABS????

I tore out of Grandmère’s suite without even saying good-bye. I just yelled, “We’re leaving!” to Lars and bolted. He ran after me, looking confused. It wasn’t until we ran into the lobby that I finally got Lilly on her cell, and was like, “WHAT AIRLINE?”

And Lilly was like, “What are you talking about?”

“WHAT AIRLINE IS MICHAEL FLYING ON?” I screamed.

“Continental,” she said, sounding confused. “Wait—Mia, where are you? We have Assembly—you have to give your speech! Your speech for student council president!”

“I can’t,” I yelled. “This is more important. Lilly, I have to see him—”

I was crying again. But I didn’t even care. I’ve been crying so much, it’s basically my natural state now. Which means maybe I’m not a nihilist after all. Because nihilists don’t cry. “Lilly. I just want to tell him—I just want to—” Except, of course, I still don’t even KNOW what I want to tell him. “Just tell me what time his plane is leaving—please?”

Something in my voice must have convinced her I was sincere.

“Six o’clock,” Lilly said, her tone softening. “But he probably already left for the airport. You have to check in, like, three hours early for international flights. Something I realize someone who only flies by royal Genovian jet wouldn’t know.”

So he was already at the airport.

But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I hung up and ran outside and told Lars to flag down a cab.

Then I called my dad on his emergency number.

“Mia?” he whispered when he picked up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Was it Mom?”

“Nothing’s wrong? Mia, this is my emergency line—I’m in the middle of the General Assembly—the committee for disarmament and international security is speaking right now. I know you’re going through a hard time right now dealing with the loss of your boyfriend, but unless you’re actually bleeding, I’m hanging up.”

“Dad, don’t! I need to know,” I said urgently. “The person you said you loved—the person you let go without a fight. Was it Mom?”

“What are you talking about?”

“WAS IT MOM? Was Mom the person you loved and regret letting go without a fight? It was, wasn’t it? Because she said she never wanted to get married, and you HAD to get married in order to provide an heir to the throne. You didn’t know you’d end up getting cancer and I’d be your only kid. And you didn’t know you’d never meet anyone you loved as much as her. So you let her go without a fight, didn’t you? It was her. It’salways been HER.”

There was silence for a moment on my dad’s end of the phone. Then he said, “Don’t tell her,” very quietly.

“I won’t, Dad,” I said. Because of my tears I could barely see Lars out on the curb with the Four Seasons doorman, both of them frantically waving their arms at cabs that were all currently filled with passengers. “I promise. Just tell me one more thing.”

“Mia, I really have to go—”

“Did you ever used to smell her neck?”

“What?”

“Mom’s neck. Dad, I have to know…. Did you ever used to smell it? Did it smell really good to you?”

“Like freesia,” Dad said faintly. “How did you know that? I never told anyone that.”

Mom’s neck smells nothing like freesia. Mom’s neck smells of Dove soap and turpentine. Oh, and coffee, because she drinks so much of it.

Except to Dad. Dad can’t smell any of that. Because for him, Mom was the One.

Just like Michael is my One.

“Dad,” I said. “I gotta go. Bye.”

I hung up just as Lars yelled, “Princess! Here!”

A cab! At last! I’m saved!

Friday, September 10, cab on the way to John F. Kennedy International Airport

I don’t believe this. It doesn’t seem possible. But there’s no mistake: We’re in Ephrain Kleinschmidt’s taxicab.

Yes. The same Ephrain Kleinschmidt in whose taxicab I wept so many bitter tears the other night.

Ephrain took one look at me in the rearview mirror and went, “YOU!”

Then he tried to hand me his Kleenex again.

“No Kleenex!” I yelled. “JFK!!! Take us to JFK, as fast as you can!”

“JFK?” Ephrain balked. “I’m about to go off duty!”

That’s when Lars showed him his sidearm. Well, really, he was just reaching for his wallet, saying there was an extra twenty in it if Ephrain got us to the airport in under twenty minutes.

But I’m pretty sure the Glock spoke more than the twenty.

Ephrain didn’t hesitate. He put the pedal to the metal. Well, at least until we got to the first traffic light.

This is excruciating. We’re never going to make it.

Except that we HAVE to. I can’t let Michael go—not without a fight. I can’t end up like my dad, with no one special in my life, dating supermodel after supermodel, because I allowed the person I really loved to slip through my fingers!

And sure, it’s possible that when I get to the airport, Michael will be like, “Get away.” Because, let’s face it—I screwed up. Not that I didn’t have a right to be hurt by what Michael did.

But I guess I should maybe have been a little bit more understanding and a little less judgmental.

Everyone TRIED to tell me. Mom. Tina. Lilly. Dad.

But I wouldn’t listen.

Why didn’t I listen?

And WHY did I kiss J.P.???? WHY WHY WHY?????

All I can do is try to explain. That it didn’t mean anything—that J.P.’s just a friend. That I’m a horrible, terrible person, and that I deserve to be punished.

Only not by Michael’s never speaking to me again. ANYTHING but that.

And even if Michael is like, “Get away,” at least maybe I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Because I’ll have tried. I’ll havetried to make things right.

And maybe just knowing I tried will be enough.

Lars was just like, “Princess. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

That’s because we’re currently stuck behind a stalled tractor-trailer on the bridge.