Royal Wedding by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page A

and I have just as valid reasons for not marrying, like that marriage is an antiquated institution that ends in divorce almost half the time, and that we’re perfectly happy with our relationship status the way it is . . . except for the part where we never get to see one another, even though we live in the same city.”
    And the part where my boyfriend has started to look every once in a while as if he were harboring some dark, terrible secret. That might be a good reason not to get married, or at least have a very serious talk sometime soon, though I’m really not looking forward to it.
    â€œAnd what about how we don’t think it’s fair for us to marry when our many same-sex-oriented couple friends cannot?” I demanded, since there was no way I was going to mention that other thing out loud. “At least, not everywhere in the world.”
    Paolo brightened. “Yes, but thanks to you, Principessa, same-sex marriage has been legal in Genovia since 2013.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “ You can marry the man you love in Genovia, but I can’t. Not without having news helicopters and quadcopter drones flying over my head, vying for as unflattering a shot of my butt as they can manage.”
    Paolo looked horrified. “Why would Paolo want to get married? Paolo has so much greatness to share with many, many men. He would not want to limit this greatness to only one man forever.”
    â€œYes, I know, Paolo,” I said. “I’m just saying. Did you hear the part about the drones?”
    That is when Paolo laid down the scissors (I’d conceded to a quarter-inch trim only) and said very firmly, “Principessa, everyone must make the sacrifice for love! That’s what makes it worth it. Even the principessas. And I think this is where you have the problem, because you think, ‘No, I am a principessa, I can do whatever I want. I do not have to sacrifice anything.’ But you do.”
    â€œPaolo,” I said. “Have you ever even met me? I’ve sacrificed everything . I can’t even walk out my front door right now without people throwing oranges at me.”
    â€œI think you need right now to find the balance,” he went on, ignoring me. “For life, you never know where the road will take you. Yours took you to a place where you got the diamond shoes, but now all you can says is, ‘Ow! These diamond shoes! They fit so tight and hurt so much!’ No one wants to hear about how tight your diamond shoes fit. You got the diamond shoes! Many people, they have no shoes at all.”
    â€œUh,” I interrupted. “I think you mean glass slippers. Cinderella had glass slippers—”
    â€œSo you got to decide, Principessa, what are you going to do, put on your diamond shoes and go to the dance? Or take them off and stay home? I know what I would do if someone give me diamond shoes. I would go to the dance, and I would never stop dancing until my feet fell off.”
    It wasn’t until Paolo put it in quite that Paolo way of his that I realized he was right.
    Of course, I don’t literally own shoes made out of diamonds. (Well, I do own a pair of Jimmy Choos that have diamond toe clips.)
    But if you think about it, I have no real problems. Aside from my obviously annoying housing situation, my mentally disturbed family, and the fact that a stalker says he wants to kill me.
    I have never even really sacrificed anything for love, or had anyone I loved die, except for a beloved stepfather, and although this was extremely tragic, the doctors assured us Mr. Gianini didn’t suffer, and probably wasn’t even aware of what was happening once he initially lost consciousness (though it’s quite sad that the last thing he saw was an advertisement for Dr. Zizmor, Skin Care Specialist, Don’t Accept Substitutes).
    But comparatively, I have nothing—absolutely nothing —​to complain about.
    I felt