Just as Edgar was about to say something else, which I couldn’t wait to hear, I became aware of two things. First, James, at a table a few feet away, had ordered a death-by-chocolate brownie with whipped cream and a sparkler in it, to his delight. I also heard a barrage of clicks and loud whispers and chairs being moved as a pack of teenage girls descended, demanding to know: “Oh my God! Are you him!” “Olivia, I told you it was him! That prince guy! It’s him! You’re him, right!” “Edgar! Prince Eddie! Can I get a selfie with you? Please? I know you’re gay, but can you look like you wanna kiss me, so my boyfriend’s head will explode?”

Someone, or any number of IHOP patrons, had tipped off their friends, families and the paparazzi, because our table was now besieged by a growing mob, as if we’d become a Black Friday sale at Best Buy and Edgar was a half-price sixty-inch flat screen. Everyone was jostling me aside to get closer to Edgar as the guards deftly hustled him out onto the sidewalk.

“I will contact you!” Edgar promised as he was being tossed into the waiting SUV, and all I could do was say, “Please!” in a strangled voice, as I was jammed against a wall by the crowd. No one had registered my presence, so I was of zero interest as I heard more than one person asking in bafflement, “But what was Prince Edgar doing at IHOP?”

CHAPTER 8

Still nothing?” said Adam almost two weeks later, once I’d joined him after his show at a gritty theater hangout, the kind of place with paper tablecloths, dim lighting and a waitstaff, all out-of-work actors, who call everyone “honey.” Adam was dancing in a jukebox musical based on the *NSYNC catalogue, and in one number the entire chorus wore curly wigs and acid-washed denim jumpsuits to portray the young Justin Timberlake’s torment over leaving the group for a solo career.

“Edgar’s the crown prince—he’s got a lot on his plate,” I ventured, but as I heard myself say it even I didn’t believe it. Edgar had my contact information, but I didn’t have his, because mega-famous people don’t just hand out their email addresses or cell numbers. Of course I’d been checking the palace website five times a day to see if I could track Edgar’s schedule, but it was rarely updated and was filled with stock photos of royal gardens and a single shot of Edgar distributing medical supplies at a refugee camp in Somalia, which made me respect him and also made me wonder, don’t they have Wi-Fi in Somalia?