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“Well . . .” He blinked a few times. “Maybe I could eat a little something. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything other than nuts at the bar at the hotel, and there’s something I’ve always wanted to try . . . but no, I couldn’t. It’s silly.”
“What, Dad? Just tell me.”
“Well, I keep seeing advertisements on the television for something they call cheesy bread. I’ve always wondered what it tastes like.”
He sounded wistful, like King Arthur in the musical Camelot when he and Guinevere wonder what the simple folk do. People always laugh at that part of the show, because it’s so ridiculous that royal people don’t know what “simple folk” do.
But in my dad’s case, it’s true. Growing up all his life in a palace, he really doesn’t know. I think it’s another reason he probably found my mom—and Olivia’s mom—so appealing.
“Fine,” I said, feeling a little sorry for him. “Cheesy bread it is.”
I figured cheesy bread might actually do him some good (it turns out he hadn’t eaten solid food in days, maybe since before his arrest, he’d been freaking out so much over everything that’s been going on—and of course is freaking out even more now that I’d told him he actually needed to do something about Olivia), so this explained a lot about his current behavior, especially the mustache.
So I ordered some . . . which meant I also had to order some for the RGG and the paparazzi stationed outside.
But whatever. The more cheesy bread, the merrier.
Oh, God, I certainly hope this doesn’t become the legacy for which I, Princess Mia of Genovia, am remembered.
CHAPTER 43
9:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Dad ate like one of those starving children you always hear about on the news who somehow get separated from the rest of their families and have to spend a few nights wandering around the woods alone, subsisting on nothing but acorns and snow, and then someone finds them running down the highway days later in nothing but a diaper and it always turns out they’re from Indiana and you go, “Uh-huh, I knew it.”
Then he dozed off on the couch while watching a home renovation show on HGTV. I wanted to avoid anything too stressful, such as the news or any Law & Order reruns that might remind him of his arrest, and of course the election and how horrible he looks without his mustache.
He chose a show where a couple is given a choice of either “loving” their newly renovated home, or “listing” it for sale and buying another. He couldn’t stay awake long enough to find out what decision they made (they listed it).
When I was sure he was really asleep, I put a blanket over him (given to me as a birthday present by the Queen of Denmark), which only acted as a magnet for Fat Louie to jump back on top of him and curl up on his chest . . . but even that extra twenty pounds didn’t wake him up. Maybe his crying jag (or the cheesy bread) had been cathartic.
I just texted a photo of the two of them (Dad and cat) to Michael, along with this message:
Hi, hope you’re having fun telling the doctors about your robot legs. You might want to make other plans for later tonight since I don’t know how interested you’re going to be in coming over for volcano time with THIS on my couch. XOXO
Michael texted back:
Why have you left me for a middle-aged band teacher? ;-)
I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.
He signed off with an emoji of a melting snowman.
Poor Michael. Since getting engaged to me, he’s:
1. Had the fact that he was getting married announced to his parents over the radio.
2. Had the small, family-and-friends-only beach wedding we planned turned into a monster affair that will be internationally televised and at which there apparently won’t be mini grilled cheese sandwiches or a mashed potato or a build-your-own taco bar.
3. Lost his apartment to news vans and paparazzi and been forced to live out of a hotel.
4. Discovered his future father-in-law has a secret younger daughter.
