Princess on the Brink Read Online Free PDF Page B

finish my screenplay AND maybe a novel…
    And that’s when Michael reached across the table and said, “Mia, there’s sort of a time crunch with this project. If we’re going to get it out on the market as soon as we possibly can, we can’t take time off. So…no, I won’t be home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I probably won’t be home until next summer, by which point we should have something we can demonstrate in an actual surgical setting.”
    I heard the words coming out of his mouth. I knew he was speaking English. But just like with Mr. Hipskin in Chemistry class, what Michael was saying made no sense. Next summer is a year from now . Basically Michael was saying he was going to be gone—not see me—for a YEAR.
    And okay, sure, I could fly to Japan to see him. In my dreams. Because NO WAY am I going to be able to talk my dad into letting me take the royal Genovian jet to Japan to see my boyfriend .
    And no way would they let me fly commercial. All the air marshals in the world wouldn’t satisfy Grandmère—let alone my dad—that commercial air traffic is safe for royals.
    That’s when I excused myself. That’s why I’m sitting here. Because none of this makes any sense.
    I don’t care how good an opportunity it is.
    I don’t care how much money he stands to make from this, or how many thousands of lives he might save.
    Why would any guy who loves his girlfriend as much as Michael claims to love me want to be apart from her for a YEAR?
    And Kevin Yang is no help on this subject. He just shrugged when I asked him this, and went, “I never understood Michael from the day he first came in here when he was ten years old. He asked for hot chili oil for my dumplings. Like they are not spicy enough!”
    And Lars, who poked his head in here a minute ago to see where I disappeared to, just went, “Well, you know. Sometimes guys just have to do these things to prove themselves.”
    To WHOM? Aren’t I the only one who should matter? I don’t want Michael to go to Japan for a year.
    And excuse me, but it’s not like he’s going off to the Gobi Desert to do chin-ups and shoot at cardboard cutouts ofterrorists like Lars did when HE decided he needed to prove himself. He’s just going to some computer lab in Japan!
    And yes, I understand that his robotic arm thingie could save thousands of lives.
    BUT WHAT ABOUT MY LIFE?
    Okay, this totally isn’t helping.
    And the sight of all these duck heads is really psychologically disturbing to me.
    I mean, not as psychologically disturbing as the fact that my boyfriend is apparently moving to Japan for a year.
    But almost.
    I’m going back out there. I’m going to be supportive. I’m going to be happy for Michael. I’m not going to say anything about how if he really loved me, he wouldn’t go. Because I can’t be selfish. I have had Michael all to myself for nearly two years now. I can’t hog him from the rest of the world, which really does need him, and his genius.
    Except.
    EXCEPT WHAT AM I GOING TO DO IF I CAN’T SMELL HIS NECK????
    I might die.

Tuesday, September 7, 10 p.m., the loft
     
    I shouldn’t have done it.
    I know I shouldn’t have done it.
    I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I don’t know why I couldn’t make my lips say the things I wanted them to say, like, “Michael, I am so proud of you,” and, “This really is such a great opportunity.”
    I mean, I DID say those things. Really, I did.
    But then—as we were walking down that bike path by the Hudson (Lars could barely keep up, we were walking so fast…well, mostly because Lars was texting people on his Sidekick as we went, but whatever), because it was such a nice night and I wasn’t ready to go home yet, because I wanted to squeeze every minute I could out of my last few days with him—and Michael was telling me how excited he was about moving to Japan, and how they eat noodles for breakfast there, and how the shumai you buy on the street are even better than the