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And the realization that this was a hurt not even a six-foot-five guy with a gun could protect me from just made me sniffle harder.
What was even more infuriating was that Michael just started laughing.
“It’s not funny.” I sniffled through my tears.
“It sort of is,” Michael said. “I mean, you have to admit. We’re a pretty pathetic pair.”
“I’ll tell you what’s pathetic,” I said. “You’re going to go away to Japan and meet some geisha girl and forget all about me. That’s what’s pathetic.”
“What would I want with some geisha girl,” Michael wanted to know, “when I could have you?”
“Geisha girls have sex with you whenever you want,” I pointed out, between sniffles. “I know, I saw that movie.”
“Well,” Michael said. “Actually, now that you mention it, a geisha girl might not be so bad.”
So then I had to hit him. Even though I still wasn’t seeing anything funny in the situation.
I still don’t. It’s a horrible, unfair, completely tragic situation.
Oh, sure, I stopped crying. And when Lars came over and asked if everything was all right, I told him it was.
But it wasn’t.
And it isn’t. Everything will never be all right again.
But I acted like I was okay with it. I mean, I had to, right? I let Michael walk me home, and I even held his hand the whole way. And at the door to the loft, I let him kiss me, while Lars politely pretended to need to tie his shoe at the bottom of the stairs. Which was good because there was also some under-the-bra action going on.
But in a tender way, like in that scene where Jennifer Beals and Michael Nouri are in the abandoned factory in Flashdance.
And when Michael whispered, “Are we okay?” I said, “Yes, we’re okay,” even though I don’t believe we are. At least, I’m not.
And when Michael said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, “You do that.”
And then I went inside the loft, walked straight to the fridge, took out the container of macadamia brittle Häagen-Dazs, grabbed a spoon, went into my room, and ate the whole thing.
But I still don’t feel okay.
I don’t think I’ll ever feel okay again.
Tuesday, September 7, 11 p.m.
My mom just tapped on my door and was all, “Mia? Are you in there?”
I said I was, and she opened the door.
“I didn’t even hear you come in,” she said. “Did you have a nice time with—”
Then her voice trailed off, because she’d seen the empty Häagen-Dazs container. And my face.
“Honey,” she said, sinking down onto the bed beside me. “What happened?”
And all of a sudden, I started crying all over again, like I hadn’t just been crying an hour before.
“He’s moving to Japan,” was all I could say. And I flung myself into her arms.
I wanted to tell her a lot more. I wanted to tell her about how it was all my fault, for not sleeping with him (even though I know, deep down inside, that’s not really true). It’s more my fault because I’m a princess—a freaking PRINCESS—and what guy could live up to that, EVER? Except a prince.
The worst part is, being a princess isn’t even something I DID. I mean, it’s not like I saved the president from being shot like Samantha Madison, or found all these missing kids with my psychic powers like Jessica Mastriani, or kept hundreds of tourists from drowning like ten-year-old Tilly Smith did when she was on that beach in Thailand and realized a tsunami was coming because she’d just been studying tsunamis in school, and told all those people to “RUN!”
