We kissed in the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace. I could hear Miriam declaring, “Let me take a picture.” I could see Abby cheering and wrestling me to the ground until I admitted that she’d predicted all of it. Somewhere Adam and DuShawn were singing “People Will Say We’re in Love” from that terrific multicultural revival of Oklahoma! where the cast had served chili at intermission. I could sense Louise making gagging noises.

“That’s quite enough,” decreed Queen Catherine.

CHAPTER 33

This was the controversy: is a lavish royal wedding an obscene anachronism, a waste of time and money poured into an overproduced spectacle of regal, prejudiced crap? Or is it, like the royal family at their best, a symbol of unity and joy, a celebration shared by all? And, in the case of a gay royal wedding, is it assimilationist dreck, a hideous example of queer people being every bit as obnoxious as straights? Or is it an LGBTQ triumph, a hugely visible win for our side, kind of like a royal pride parade?

Edgar and I argued about every aspect: Should we have a small, quickie ceremony and build a website for wedding day contributions to worthy causes? Or would everyone, especially gay people, feel cheated out of what could be a highly original blowout?

“You’re the associate event architect,” Edgar finally decreed. “You figure it out.”

I got busy. In my profession, a royal wedding is a dream, a pinnacle, the Nobel Prize for centerpieces. I invited Cassandra and the Eventfully Yours staff to assist me, in coordination with the palace and Abby, as my associate event cochair—I appointed her because Edgar demanded it, and because I didn’t want her to kill me in my sleep. The wedding was scheduled for June, in the sunshine. My first meeting with Abby, over a hypersecure conferencing app engineered for the occasion, began like this: “Okay, Carter, you know that every cell in my body is hyperventilating with bliss, for you and Edgar and me. Because ever since my wedding, I’ve been thinking about yours. I didn’t want to tell you, because I know how nervous you can be, but I’ve totally got this.”

She went on: “This wedding can’t be just about the happy couple—it’s for everyone. It’s a world wedding. Which means it’s big. The biggest. Which doesn’t mean money, it means poring over every detail and opening up the guest list. We need bits from every all-stops-out traditional royal-palooza but also stuff that no one’s ever seen. It’s like a UNICEF commercial, a Hallmark Channel Very Special Event and the inauguration of a nonbinary president, if they all adopted a baby. It’s everything.”

I trusted Abby. She was an intersectional bridezilla—a bridezilla of tomorrow.