Enough for what? To argue or coax or berate him out of ruining his life? Or, if he wanted to abdicate, should I respect his decision? He was conflicted over how royals could contribute to a greater good, so maybe bowing out and forging another route was the right idea. Or was that bullshit, because I knew he’d be an incredible king, and not just because he was gay, although that was a fabulous dividend, but because he was a compassionate and forward-thinking man who could make a difference?

Did I have any place in his life?

I’d already destroyed him, for reasons we’d dispute, and he wasn’t speaking to me. If I could somehow reach him, and advise him, what would I say? “The guy you think cheated on you says to have faith”? “Listen to your gold-digging American slut”?

Was I a gold digger? What if Edgar was, say, a barista or a bank teller, or a guy I’d met online or at the gym? Would I still be devoted, or was I more in love with his money and celebrity and with some imagined, photoshopped Instagram story of myself by his side, performing a gracious, trademark royal wave to our fans behind the barricades before breezing into the hottest restaurant for a cozy dinner with a pop star and her Oscar-winning current husband to chat about everyone’s charitable foundations?

No. When I thought about Edgar, he was never hobnobbing at the Met Ball or being applauded at a summit. He was either in my arms or sitting across from me at IHOP, delightedly torn between ordering the cinnamon raisin pancakes or the chocolate chip with extra whipped cream. And I was telling him we could have both.

Was I still angry that Edgar hadn’t listened to my side of the Callum situation, or trusted me, especially in front of pretty much everyone on Earth?

Yes. And he was every bit as stubborn and pigheaded as me, only because he was a prince, I was expecting him to do better, to take the high road, to be more royally magnanimous. To do all the heavy lifting.

What did I want most, in my heart of hearts, as my St. Patrick’s truth?

I wanted Edgar to make the first move, to apologize, or at least text me. No, that was what I wanted in my snittiest, smallest, pettiest brain. In my best sense of myself I wanted—Edgar. And because of that, I wanted him to be happy. And I wanted his happiness and our love to become the same thing.

How could I make that happen?

Should I max out my Amex, jump on a plane, run to the palace and bang on the doors, yowling Edgar’s name as Scotland Yard dragged me away?