“Excuse me?” said Abby. “You’ve met the perfect guy, he adores me, and everything was going gangbusters, like total gay Bachelor put-a-ring-on-it finale, until this tiny little obstacle, this one minor hiccup. And you’re going to give up?”

“Abbs, it’s not just about Caroline and her morning-show massacre. If anything, I should thank her. Because being on that show, and the whole Callum shit storm, and Edgar’s reaction: it proved something.”

“Like what?”

I didn’t want to say this, but I had to. It was the first well-reasoned, rueful but accurate, adult decision of my entire life. “It proved that Edgar and I are—impossible, and we always were. That interview was an ultimate red flag. I got caught up, and maybe Edgar did too, in our whirlwind courtship, in the fairy-tale craziness, in the prince and the peon trope. It sounds good on paper, or in some gay teenager’s journal with doodles of doves flying around with rainbow banners, but it could never work. Edgar could never really let me in: he’s too scared, and everyone around him is too invested in keeping his life just the way it’s supposed to be, according to the ye olde royal nodding-and-waving-from-a-balcony handbook. And maybe he won’t always be alone, maybe he’ll meet someone who checks all the suitable-spouse boxes, like Maureen, and they’ll become a palace-endorsed team. But that’s not me, and it never will be.”

“But . . . but . . .” Abby was formulating a defense. “But maybe you haven’t tried hard enough, either of you. And maybe Edgar needs to stand up to his family, and you need to stop being so sane and mature and willing to take, like, romantic early retirement. You’re only thirty years old—”

“Twenty-nine. I’m still twenty-nine. For a few more months.”

“Which is way too young to be giving up! And didn’t Edgar tell you he loved you? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Of course, and I’ll always remember it. My Disney prince Hallmark epiphany, with upchuck. But I don’t know if he even meant it, or if maybe he was feeling sorry for me, due to the barf, and . . . and I never said it back.”

“Which is on you. So this isn’t over. It can’t be. Carter, I have a patient, this little girl with a heart valve replacement. She’s going to be okay, although she was on a ventilator and she needs months of recovery. But she found out that I was your sister, and do you know what she keeps asking?”

“Why did I let Callum kiss me? And why did I tell Caroline to fuck off?”

“No. All she’s been asking about is a royal wedding. Because she wants to know what you’re going to wear.”

“You’re making that up.”