But if “gratitude” and “dream” journaling really does help with stress, I’m willing to give it a go.
At this point, I’ll try anything.
Let’s see. I already wrote down what I dreamed about. Here are three things for which I feel grateful:
1. I don’t have a brain tumor.
2. My father didn’t die in that race-car incident. Though given how reckless it was of him to have been in it in the first place, he probably deserved to.
3. Michael, the funniest, handsomest, smartest, and most forgiving boyfriend in the entire world (even if every once in a while lately I’ve noticed there’s something going on with his eyes, too. Not a twitch. More like something brewing in there. If I still wrote historical romance novels—which I had to give up, not because of RoyalRabbleRouser’s threats but because I don’t have time, between all my public speaking, running the Community Center, and worrying about Dad—I would describe it as a “haunted shadow.”)
I know it’s selfish, but I hope if there is something wrong with Michael, it’s that he’s passing another kidney stone—even though he said the one he passed last May was the most painful experience of his life, and the nephrologist compared it to giving birth—and not that Mr. G’s death has caused him to re-evaluate his life and make him realize he’s with the wrong person. I’m totally aware of the fact that it would be much, much easier for him to be with a girl who could meet him for drinks after work at T.G.I. Friday’s without it first having to be swept for bombs, or go to the movies with him without having a plainclothes sharpshooter sit behind us, or simply stroll around Central Park without being followed by a phalanx of photo-hungry press.
But I’m never going to be that girl.
And my worst fear is that someday he’s going to realize it and dump me the way my mom dumped my dad, leaving him the brokenhearted, race-car-speeding, empty shell of a man he is today.
Honestly, what good is owning a castle if the person you love doesn’t want to share it with you?
CHAPTER 2
3:32 p.m., Wednesday, April 29
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
New York City
Tried to go to work at the Community Center after my appointment, but Perin called while I was on my way and said hordes of paps had shown up there, too, and were bothering the teens (and their adult mentors) by asking how they felt about my father’s brush with the law, and whether or not I was “carrying Michael’s twins,” so maybe it would be better if I “worked from home.”
So sweet, right? Who else has such kind, concerned friends?
And not just the kind who’ve known you since high school and so have no problem telling you that your bra strap is showing and that there’s salad in your teeth. The kind who are willing to run the Community Center you just founded even though they could probably be making millions running a start-up in Silicon Valley instead.
(See? I am already taking the doctor’s advice and practicing more gratitude in my day-to-day life.)
I said, “Thanks, Perin, I understand.”
People everywhere pray for a job where they can “work from home,” so I guess, going with the gratitude theme, I should be grateful for this opportunity.
I wonder how, though, when people get one of these jobs, they keep themselves from spending the entire day going on YouTube and looking at videos about baby deer that have been adopted by golden retrievers. Because that’s all I’ve accomplished today so far.
Well, aside from FaceTiming Michael and asking again if he could see my twitch. Of course he asked if I could turn the camera lower, and then lower, and then unbutton my shirt . . .
And suddenly I realize what else people who work from home do all day.
Except that Michael does not work at home, he works at the company he founded, Pavlov Surgical, so we couldn’t have quite as much fun as we wanted since his work space has glass walls and anyone could have looked in and seen what we were up to.
He did tell me though (later) that he’d read on WebMD that eye twitches are very often caused by a magnesium deficiency and that human spermatozoa are a rich source of magnesium.
“Is that so?” I said. “I suppose you’re going to volunteer to come over later to help relieve me of this severe nutritional deficiency?”
“Well, I don’t want to brag, but I have been touted in the press as manly enough to render perfectly respectable princesses sex mad from several miles away.”
“Nice try, Mr. Moscovitz,” I said. “I’m reporting you to the board of health for making unsubstantiated nutritional claims. Good-bye.”
His eyes actually looked as normal as he claims mine do, so maybe he really is okay, and the whole shadow thing is a figment of my admittedly sometimes overactive imagination.
I am going to order magnesium right now from the grocery store down the street (to be delivered, although sadly I can’t order it with my smartphone because the closest grocery store from which the Royal Genovian Guard will accept deliveries doesn’t have an app for that. Also, I’m not allowed to have apps, except of course for iTriage, which I can’t imagine doing any harm).
I’m sure the news of what I’m ordering will get out somehow and the next headline about me is going to read:
“Pill-Popping Princess!
CAN ANYONE SAVE HER?
Pope Swears He’ll Try.”
CHAPTER 3
8:32 p.m., Wednesday, April 29