I moved back into the apartment, where Louise and Adam took over, telling reporters that I’d left town or that they were wielding sawed-off shotguns behind our locked door. They did what friends do, which was to resolutely take my side and to refer to Edgar as a dumpster fire, a lowlife and His Royal Shithead so I could protest, “No, he’s not that bad, things just didn’t work out,” and Louise could say, “He’s a pig-faced pile of white-privileged pee stains who never appreciated you on any level and fuck him until the people of England rise up and throw him in the Tower of London, or off the Tower of London,” and I could nod meekly and say, “Maybe you’re right.” Adam and DuShawn acted out the woke, revised climax of a recent My Fair Lady revival, in which Eliza Doolittle brandishes her independence and leaves Henry Higgins in the dust, striding out of the theater itself by way of the center aisle.

I was recognized wherever I went, and I developed a sympathy for peripheral figures in heavily publicized scandals, for the escorts and porn stars and naive college students who’d dared to get involved with famous people and had been punished for it. I was contacted about a quickie book deal if I was willing to divulge sex secrets of the royals, which I turned down, even though Abby had speculated, “But what if it got made into an HBO Max original series and I could be played by Jennifer Lawrence?”

I no longer pondered romance as even an abstract concept or a lie repeated to sell paperbacks, greeting cards and weekend packages at hotels in the Poconos with heart-shaped bathtubs. When I was confronted with footage of Edgar running through a park with his security team or in full, resplendent uniform, saluting beside Queen Catherine as she reviewed the troops on a parade ground, I’d either shut it off instantly or stare at it numbly, to dilute its power. There’s a particular peril to breaking up with either an actor like Callum, or someone world-famous like Edgar: they’re everywhere. It’s like falling in love with the “Don’t Walk” sign, or earbuds, or the sky.

Which brings me to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner, several months after I’d fled England—or, more correctly, been kicked out on my ass.

CHAPTER 26

Thanksgiving was going to mark my return to normalcy, to getting on with life and if anyone brought up Edgar’s name, saying, “I met him once I think, at the UN.” When I got out to Piscataway, my relatives were doing their best, even Abby, who was still refusing to abandon hope for an Edgar/Carter rematch.

“There you are,” said my mom as I walked into the kitchen. “Don’t you look nice.”

“Our son is a very handsome man,” said my dad.