Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,2

very mild mood stabilizer.”

“Oh, no,” Dr. Delgado said. “Nail-biting is a bad habit, but very common, and hardly worth treating psychopharmacologically. The worst that could happen from compulsive nail-biting is that you might incur an infection, or pick up a pinworm.”

Oh my God. I am never biting my nails again. At least not before thoroughly washing them in antibacterial soap.

“What I suggest you try,” he added as he packed up his bag, “is journaling.”

“Journaling?” Was he joking?

He was not.

“Why yes, I see you’ve heard of it. Journaling has been shown to reduce stress and help with problem solving. My wife keeps what she calls a gratitude journal. She writes down three things every day for which she feels grateful. She keeps a dream journal as well. She says it’s helped tremendously, especially with her mood swings. You should try it. Well, I’ll be in touch in about a week about that blood work. Good day, Princess!”

And then he left.

Which leaves me here. Journaling.

Why couldn’t I have lied to make myself seem more pathetic so he’d have written me a prescription for an antianxiety medication, or at least a low-dose sleeping pill? Even the veterinarian does this for Fat Louie when I take him on the private jet back and forth to Genovia, and Fat Louie is a cat.

Granted, he’s an extremely elderly cat who now needs a tiny staircase to climb up and down from my bed and tends to revenge-poop on everything when he doesn’t get his own way. But still. Why does a cat get tranquilizers but the expensive concierge doctor we hired will not give them to me?

Oh, dear, I just read that over, and it sounds a bit odd. Of course I don’t revenge-poop on things when I don’t get my own way. I’m simply saying that it seems a bit unfair that we have the one concierge doctor in all of Manhattan who refuses to prescribe antianxiety medication. I’m sure every other celebrity (and royal) is loaded up on them.

• Note to self: Check on this. This would explain a lot about their behavior, actually.

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