“Or,” said Adam, “you can have the most fabulous time, end up eloping and turn slightly away from any cameras so that the totally unnoticeable teeny-tiny blemish on your chin will stay in shadow.”

“Adam!” scolded Louise. “Carter is nervous enough as it is. And it’s not a blemish, it’s obviously his twin brother who never fully developed in the womb.”

“I love you both so much,” I said, “and I’m going to beg Edgar for a donation to get you the help you need.”

“Just have fun,” said Louise, meaning it. “And don’t let the evil of a justifiably fallen empire intimidate you. You’re the best.”

“In your honor,” Adam said, “tonight DuShawn and I are going to picture you as Cinderella in either of the last two Broadway revivals or as Sweeney Todd, who I know is a mass murderer, but he’s still the star.”

On the subway I experienced a first-date panic attack ultrasized by the royalty aspect. On one hand, Prince Edgar had remembered my name and asked James to locate me, but once Edgar took a closer look he’d instantly recall fifteen previous royal engagements—and why had it taken him two weeks to ask me out? I must be sufficiently hot stuff to attract a prince, which meant that my new tricep routine at the gym was paying off, but my abs were still nowhere near as ripped as they should be, and why was I basing my entire concept of self-esteem on Instagram photos of impossibly fit guys? But maybe English people weren’t as buff, so on a sliding international scale I was a catch, or maybe this whole thing was part of a scavenger hunt where Edgar had been required to find a hopeless American dweeb, or maybe I should just text him that I was flu-ish and had to cancel and then throw myself on the subway tracks so I’d be enshrined in Edgar’s memory as his lost, perfect love.

Or maybe I should do something sensible, like imagining Ruth Ginsburg slapping me and saying, “You’ve got a date with a prince! Stop being you! And just be yourself!”

Once I’d reached the enormous plate glass doors of the five-star Tribeca restaurant Edgar had chosen, a place that had managed to remain on-trend for an unthinkable ten years, I tried to examine my reflection, but just as I was squinching my features into a sad variation on one of Callum’s rugged cologne ads, the one where he’d smelled like “the savage mystery of the Sierras,” the doors swung open, I leapt backward and James appeared.

“You’re late—why am I not surprised? His Highness is waiting, and I’m assuming that all of your decent clothing has been stolen. Follow me.”