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I’m not sure I want to bring it up on such a joyous day, especially since it was really just a blip on my happiness radar. I wouldn’t even know anything about it myself if Michael hadn’t canceled his bachelor-party trip to Buenos Aires.
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said when I asked him why, as casually as if he were saying, I’m going to go take a swim in the royal pool, which he does quite frequently. I often watch him from the balcony off our bedroom. It’s an amazing sight.
“Michael, that makes no sense. I’m never alone. I live in a palace with my grandmother, a hundred employees—many of whom are trained in Krav Maga, the art of Israeli contact combat—and my mother, father, half brother, and half sister, who are staying here until their own palace is finished being renovated. I never get a minute to myself. Go and have fun eating dead animals with Boris and your little online friends.”
So then he tried to say he didn’t “want a bachelor party,” and didn’t “feel like” going to Buenos Aires anyway, which I knew was a lie, because I often caught him looking up “Best Steak Restaurants in Argentina” online (the way other people catch their significant others looking at porn).
So really I had no choice but to sic his sister on him. I had to know what was really going on. Truthfully, I asked Lilly to look into it more for Tina than for me, because I was beginning to suspect there was something even creepier going on with Boris than that he’d cheated on her with that single blogger. Maybe Michael had found out Boris was running an underage teen prostitute ring, or something, with the Borettes, and he wanted to steer as far away from him as possible (understandable).
But Lilly soon had the real story, and this was far from it. It had nothing at all to do with Boris:
Michael had discovered the true identity of RoyalRabbleRouser . . . and it was someone we knew! Someone from my past.
Someone so unlikely, I’d never even considered him as a suspect.
Lilly was still in New York, and I was here, in Genovia, so she had to call me. She didn’t even text. Or look at the time difference before dialing.
“It’s J.P.,” she said, before even saying hello.
“What? Who’s J.P.? What are you talking about? Did you know it’s one in the morning here? I was asleep.”
“Sorry. But RoyalRabbleRouser is J.P. I just got off the phone with Michael, who confirmed it.”
“Michael? Michael is downstairs in the billiard room, playing pool with Lars.”
“Yeah, he is now. Before that, he was talking to me. And he said not to tell you, but when he punched J.P. that one time in your grandma’s apartment, he also stole his phone, because he wanted to see who else he’d been trying to sell tickets to your wedding to. And that’s when he saw all J.P.’s posts as RoyalRabbleRouser, your stalker.”
I’d gasped. “Oh my God!”
Looking back, it makes perfect sense. I don’t know why I didn’t see it right away. It’s just so unbelievable that someone I know would be so angry with me, and make so many hurtful remarks about me and my family.
But who else would have so much reason to? Or perceived reason to, anyway, since ever since I met him, J.P.’s always wanted to use me, for one reason or another, and I was never willing to go along with any of them.
Now all I can think about is how many hours he wasted sitting there in front of those various comput
ers, logged in as someone else, spewing hatred, when he could have spent them doing something positive for himself and the world. He had the talent—his book wasn’t my cup of tea, but a lot of people would have loved it. What twisted path was he following?
The wrong one, obviously.
“Why didn’t Michael tell me?” I asked Lilly.
“Because the next day you found out you were pregnant with twins, dummy. He didn’t want to upset you. Anyway, he says there’s nothing to worry about, because it’s all taken care of.”
“What does that mean, it’s all taken care of?” I’d demanded. “How is it all taken care of?”
“Well, have you heard from RoyalRabbleRouser lately?”
“No.” It was true, when I thought about it. There hadn’t been a single post or threat since that night I’d seen J.P. at Grandmère’s. But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “Oh my God, Lilly! What did Michael do to J.P.?”
“Michael didn’t do anything to him. Don’t be stupid. He turned the phone in to the RGG.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned.
“Oh, right,” Lilly scoffed. “You think J.P. is locked up in a holding cell somewhere under the palace like the president did to Olivia Pope’s boyfriend on Scandal?”
“No,” I said. “Grandmère’s new boyfriend used to work at Interpol. I bet that’s where they’ve got J.P.”
“Well,” Lilly said, “good. Then I guess his douchey dystopian novel is never going to get published. And J.P. has learned a valuable lesson: don’t mess with the Princess of Genovia.”
