To JessFreak: I find stories to be better when I don't know the ending. But I wouldn't ditch this one too quickly.

To the rest of you: Thanks for reading! Schwartzibrow seriously appreciates it.

Ch. 9

Michael pointed out on the ride up that it's kind of ironic that I take my hoity-toity limo up for some rest and relaxation. I told Michael that he doesn't know what he's talking about. I take the limo EVERYWHERE. It's just a mode of transportation, not an indication of my personality. He just grunted and smirked. Attractive.

Olivia looked so adorable with her hair in little braids and her flip-flops dangling precariously from her toes. She wasn't exactly enamored of me, though. One might say she was even avoiding my eyes and glaring insolently out the window.

"Excited about the beach?" I said, making a stab at conversation.

Shrug.

"Have you ever been before?"

Slight shake of head.

I turned to Michael. "You never brought her to the beach? Didn't you guys ever go visit your grandparents or anything?"

His eyes neared balloon-size, as though I had suggested that we all go bungee-jumping off the Sears Tower. "Are you crazy? The ocean is dangerous. She could die, or worse, drown. The Moscovitz family isn't big on swimming anyhow. You know that."

Of course I knew that. Michael is way feline when it comes to water.

"So she can't swim?"

"Who would've taught her?"

I repressed the urge to laugh out loud. And a moment later I didn't even feel like a giggle. He's right. I should've been there to teach her.

"Wanna learn how to swim?" I said to Olivia. I've gotta stop summoning up so much enthusiasm when conversing with her. It's a wasted effort.

Michael's eyes practically bulged out of his head as he shook his head frantically. "NO! No way! Do you have a license to teach? And the ocean is way bigger than some kiddie pool. We should start with a kiddie pool. Or…or a bathtub."

He looked so horrified that I clammed up, not wanting to press the subject further. But I'll be damned if I don't follow up on the one parenting advantage I have over Michael.

I swung open the door to the little cottage, glancing nervously back at Michael and Olivia. Truth be told, I haven't actually been here. In fact, this is the first time I've had off from teas and state dinners and balls in about a year.

I'm not sure exactly when I got so busy with all of this princess jazz. Back in high school, I thought a lesson a day was a huge imposition on my social life. But as the years wore on, I definitely learned to appreciate the days when I could catch a movie with Michael in the evening, or take Rocky to the Central Park zoo on Saturday mornings.

If I was taking the increase in royal activities poorly, it was nothing compared to Michael. Of course, Michael's always been eons better than me at hiding his feelings. His nostrils wouldn't flare when he'd say, "Have fun in Genovia, Mia!" or "Your grandmother got me an etiquette book? How sweet. I'm sure it'll come in handy." Only days later I'd find Grandmere's handy manners guide propping up a leg of ourcoffee table. Handy indeed.

But his point of view became quite obvious when Michael started refusing to come to Genovia. "I've got work," he'd say, nary a glance my way as he changed the channel. "What's the point in using up my vacation days when I'm just gonna be hassled by your grandmother?"

So I left him behind. It seemed a fair deal for everyone. Grandmere was absolutely beside herself with delight, Michael was free to sit on the couch and watch Arrested Development reruns as often as he liked…and me? Well, to tell the truth, I was kind of relieved not to actually witness Michael's discomfort around my family.

"Here we are!" I said ecstatically, doing a quick look-over to make sure Rene hadn't left any thongs or condoms laying around from the last time he and his 'friends' came to 'relax.'

Michael actually smiled. A genuine one at that. "This is pretty cool. There's probably caviar in the fridge, though? Maids waiting in the corner of my room to creep the hell out of me?"

I kept my cool. Olivia mustn't see Mommy and Daddy bickering. "Oh, Michael!" I said loftily. "You're so very witty."

Almost immediately, his face scrunched up in confusion. "Uh…I try?"

Flashing my most princessy smile, I swept out of the room to go check on things like proper bedding and closet space. After the "stunning" realization that I had no clue what I was doing, I kind of tinkered around aimlessly in Michael's guest room for a minute or two.

Alright, time to bring my A-game. This little getaway is not about me taking Michael's bait and launching into hysterical tears every time he fancies a look my way. I've got to make that little girl love me. When it comes down to it, this is quite possibly the only royal task I've been given that will actually benefit my old friend. You know the one. Seen all over milk cartons a few years ago? Missed desperately by the friends and family who haven't completely denied her existence?

If you answered Mia Thermopolis, a brand-spanking-new air guitar is headed your way.

Continuing my exploration, I found the bathroom and peeked inside. But just as I was about to step back out, I did a double take. Wait a minute! There's not supposed to be another door in bathrooms!

Thinking it was some sort of feminine products closet, I was contemplating ways to make it invisible to Michael's naked eye (and his naked body invisible to my rather naked fantasies) when I actually opened it up.

Surprisingly enough, this was no Playtex cupboard. A whole other bedroom lay before me, about the same size and layout as Michael's. I'll bet they get along just perfectly. If Michael's room were to give this room any instructions, you can bet they'd be followed to the tee. And ten bucks says these instructions include hating the poor mother room that is only trying to do her best.

Hmmmm. I wonder who shall stay in here?

I'll just set up camp in the other room, far away from the tight-knit circle of People I've Ruthlessly Abandoned.

When I returned to the living room, Michael was fiddling with the entertainment system (artfully hidden in a cabinet). "Hey!" I said brightly, still in Superwoman mode. "I'm just gonna go unpack in my bedroom. You'll be staying there. And Olivia's right there."

Michael looked at me strangely. I thought he was still a bit lost on my mood swing, but then I followed his eyes around the room.

Kitchen. Michael's bedroom. Olivia's. My ro—

I whirled around, gaping at Michael. "Um, do you see another room anywhere?"

He took another glance about and shrugged. "Don't worry; I'll just share a room with Oliv—"

"No!" I interjected, eager to maintain my role as the ever-helpful hostess. "This is vacation. I'll sleep on the couch."

"You?" chuckled Michael. "That's a thousand times worse than a pea under a load of mattresses."

I'll admit I was a bit indignant. Like Michael would know shit about fairy tales if it weren't for me. This is the same man who once asked me "What the hell is a Rumpoo Schnitzel?" "I've slept on couches before!"

"You did a lot of things before."

Ignoring his attempted guilt trip, I lugged his suitcase into the guest room without another word. "I'm on the couch," I told him when I came back out.

"We'll take turns," suggested Michael. "Tomorrow night I'll take the couch."

"When do I get the couch?" Olivia piped up.

"You, babe, are about to find out what being a princess is all about," said Michael, kneeling down in front of her. "Go ahead. Order your mommy about. She's under strict instruction to follow your every whim."

"What's a whim?" she asked, wrinkling up her little button nose.

"It's whatever you want," said Michael, shooting a slightly sinister grin my way.

Olivia smiled too, looking way more adorable than evil. My traits shining through, obviously. "Can I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"

"I can do that!" I practically squealed in excitement.

Michael's laugh wasn't quite so cruel this time. "Can I have a BLT, Princess the Former?"

I squinted my eyes at him. "What do you think?"

"I think I'll join you in the kitchen to make sure you don't poison my tomato."

He followed me into the other room. "I stocked the fridge with those groceries you brought while you were doing room inspection."

"Oh, thanks."

"But remember, I'm not the one being controlled by a seven-year-old. Must be a big ego boost for you. Mind if I can take advantage of this too? Woman, make me a sandwich."

I turned around sharply, dropping my pleasant façade. "Look, Michael," I hissed. "I know you think I'm this huge bitch and I've got no sense of human decency and I dine with Lucifer once a week, but you might also recall that I don't really like getting completely attacked for something that wasn't all my fault."

"Of course it was your fault," he snapped. "You left. I stayed."

Seriously, though. I won't deny that it was a rather monumental event in both of our lives, but is he really going to hold to this that much longer? Especially tainted with the ridiculous idea that he was some freaking martyr throughout the whole ordeal! Saint Michael, my ass.

"I had to go. We weren't in love any more. It had died and I had better things to do than wait for the spark to come back."

That was the godawful truth. Tell me, because I'm dying to know, how am I supposed to handle a prince consort who absolutely refuses to participate in anything princely? He can't exactly reign at my side if he won't even acknowledge that I've got a scepter.

"You don't even know what you're talking about," said Michael coldly. "Forget about the sandwich."

And with that, he stormed out.

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