Then we were being led to our sun-dappled table (Lars took up a seat at the bar so he could keep one eye on some sporting event, and one eye on me. Oh, why, Lars, why? Why did you sit so far off????), and Michael was chatting away, I had no idea about what, I was still all dazed by the pheromones or whatever that were tweet-tweeting around my head, and we had a table RIGHT BY THE LAKE, so I had to start keeping an eagle eye out for Lana and Trisha, in case they happened to row by.
But also I think I was dazzled by the sun twinkling on the water, it was all so beautiful and fresh and not like we were in New York at all, but in…well, Genovia, or something.
I swear, I felt as if I were on drugs.
Finally Michael was like, “Mia, are you all right?” and I shook my head like Fat Louie does when I’ve scratched his ears too much, and I went, laughing all nervously, “Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m sorry, I’m just a little distracted.” But I couldn’t tell him WHY I was so distracted, of course.
Then at the last minute I remembered my excellent news, and I gushed, “I got a phone call this morning from an editor—she wants to publish my book.”
“That’s great!” Michael said, his face breaking out into this big smile. That wonderful smile that I remembered from back in my freshman year, when he used to slip into Algebra to help me with Mr. G’s assignmentsduring class, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. “We’ve got to celebrate!”
So then he ordered sparkling water, and he toasted my success, and I was totally embarrassed, so I toasted his success back (I mean, honestly, my romance novel isn’t going to save any lives, but as he pointed out, while his CardioArm is saving a patient’s life, the family members of that patient could very well be sitting in the waiting room keeping happy and calm by reading my book. Which is a very good point), and we sat there sipping Perrier on the water in the middle of a Friday afternoon in Central Park in New York City.
Until the bright rays of the afternoon sun caught on the diamond in the ring J.P. had given me, which I forgot to take off. Anyway, the resulting reflection sent an explosion of little rainbows all over Michael’s face, making him blink.
I was mortified, and said, “I’m sorry,” and slipped the ring off and put it in my bag.
“That’s some rock,” Michael said, with a teasing smile. “So are you guys, like, engaged now?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “It’s just a friendship ring.” Mia Thermopolis’s Big Fat Lie Number Eleven.
“I see,” Michael said. “Friendships have gotten a lot more…expensive than when I was at AEHS.”
Ouch.
But then Michael changed the subject. “And where’s J.P. going to college next year?”
“Well,” I said carefully. “Sean Penn’s optioned this play J.P. wrote, so he’s thinking about heading out to Hollywood next year, and doing college later.”
Michael looked very interested to hear that. “Really? So you guys would be doing the long-distance thing.”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t know. We’re talking about me going with him….”
“To Hollywood?” Michael sounded totally incredulous. Then he apologized. “Sorry. You just…I mean, you’ve just never struck me as the Hollywood type. Not that you aren’t glamorous enough now. Because you totally are.”
“Thanks,” I said, completely embarrassed. Fortunately the waiter had brought our salads by then, so I was able to distract myself by saying no, thank you, to ground pepper.
“But I know what you mean,” I went on, when the waiter went away. “I’m not really sure what I’d do all day in Hollywood. J.P. said I could write. But…I always thought if I put off college for a year, it would be to go out in one of those little boats that put themselves between the whaling ships and the humpbacks, or something. Not hang around on Melrose. You know?”
“Somehow I don’t see your parents giving the seal of approval to either of those plans,” Michael said.
“And then there’s that,” I said, with a sigh. “I have some things I need to figure out. And not a whole lot of time left to do it. The parental units want a decision on where I’m going by the election.”
“You’ll do the right thing,” Michael said confidently. “You always do.”
I just stared at him. “How can you even say that? I so do not.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “In the end.”
“Michael, I screw everything up,” I said, laying down my fork. “You, more than anyone, should know that. I completely ruined our relationship.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, looking shocked. “I did.”
“No,I did,” I said. I couldn’t believe we were finally saying these things…these things I’d been thinking for so long, and saying to other people—my friends, Dr. Knutz—but never to the one person to whom they really mattered…Michael. The person to whom I ought to have said them, ages ago. “I never should have made such a big deal over the Judith thing—”
“And I ought to have told you about it from the beginning,” Michael interrupted.
“Even so,” I said. “I acted like a complete and utter psycho—”
“No, Mia, you didn’t—”
“Oh my God,” I said, holding up my hand to stop him with a laugh. “Can we please not try to rewrite history? I did. You were right to break up with me. Things were getting too intense. We both needed a breather.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “Abreather . You weren’t supposed to go and get engaged to someone else in the meantime.”
For a second after he said it, I couldn’t inhale. I felt as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out of it, or something. I just stared at him, not sure I’d heard him correctly. Had he really said…was it possible he’d really…?
Then he laughed, and, as the waiter came back to pick up his empty salad plate (I’d barely touched mine), said, “Just kidding. Look, I knew it was a risk. I couldn’t have expected you were going to wait around for me forever. You can get engaged—or, what is it? Right, friendship-ringed—to whomever you want. I’m just glad you’re happy.”
Wait. What was happening?
I didn’t know what to do or say. Grandmère had prepared me for tons of situations—from dealing with thieving maids to escaping from embassies during coups d’etat.
But honestly, nothing could have prepared me for this.
Was my ex-boyfriend really intimating that he wanted to get back together?
Or was I reading too much into things? (It wouldn’t be the first time.)
Fortunately just then our main courses came, and Michael steered the conversation back to normal ground like nothing had happened. Maybe nothinghad happened. Suddenly we were talking about whether or not Joss Whedon will ever make aBuffy the Vampire Slayer feature film and how much Karen Allen rocks and Boris’s concert and Michael’s company and Dad’s campaign. For two people with relatively nothing in common (because, let’s face it, he’s a robotic-surgical-arm designer. I’m a romance writer…and a princess. I love musicals and he hates them. Oh, and we have totally dissimilar DNA) we have never, ever run out of things to say to each other.
Which is completely weird.
Then, without my knowing quite how, we got to Lilly.
“Has your dad seen the commercial she made for him?” Michael asked.
“Oh,” I said, smiling. “Yes! It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe it. Was that…did you have something to do with that?”
“Well,” Michael said, smiling too. “She wanted to do it. But…I might have encouraged her a little. I can’t believe you two still aren’t friends again, after all this time.”
“We aren’tnot friends,” I said, remembering what Lilly had told me about how he’d said she had to be nice to me. “We just…I don’t know what happened, really. She never would tell me.”