“I warned you,” said Louise, hogging the bread, “just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he isn’t a guy. And royals are the ultimate form of privilege, because it’s all inherited. They’re white people whose feet don’t even touch the ground. You’re being ghosted by a ghost.”

“I once went out with a guy who played King George in one of the tours of Hamilton,” volunteered Adam’s boyfriend, DuShawn, who I liked because he was, if anything, even more optimistic and theater-driven than Adam. “And after our first date he didn’t call me for five weeks because he’d been hit by a car, which had also destroyed his phone.”

“Exactly!” said Adam. “There could be a totally sympathetic explanation!”

“Or maybe Edgar is just a devious buttwipe with boyfriends all over the world,” said Louise. “Maybe he just throws a dart at a globe.”

“So I should just stop thinking about him,” I said, “and going over every second of our date in my mind and trying to pinpoint what I did wrong and considering having radical plastic surgery so if we ever run into each other he won’t recognize me and we could try again?”

“You are making me feel so healthy,” said Adam.

“Have you thought about writing ‘I Went on One Date with Prince Edgar’ on a piece of cardboard,” suggested Louise, “and sitting cross-legged in Times Square?”

“Or you could sue IHOP,” said Adam. “Maybe they served him bad pancakes.”

“There’s no such thing as bad pancakes!” I protested.

“Pancakes,” said DuShawn, “are filled with carbs and air and refried microorganisms, which can live on a griddle for months. And if I could have pancakes right now I would not only die happy, I would write a musical about a guy who falls in love with a plate of pancakes and petitions the Supreme Court so they can get married.”

I knew I liked DuShawn.

“Carter,” said Louise, passing me a chunk of bread, which meant she was being sincere, “we love you so much, and you’ve already been through a shitshow with Callum. You should be grateful that this Prince Edgar thing ended before you could overinvest. You deserve so much better.”

“You deserve, like, Hugh Jackman,” said Adam.

“Adam, for the one millionth time,” I said, “Hugh Jackman isn’t gay. You just want him to be gay.”

“But during ‘Bye Bye Bye,’” Adam countered, “when Justin leaves the group, all the dancers are bored, so we’re dedicating the number to turning Hugh Jackman gay. Fifteen dancers in leather patchwork vests and newsboy caps can be very powerful.”

Adam and DuShawn began harmonizing on the *NSYNC ballad “Music of My Heart,” and the entire restaurant joined in, except for Louise and me, representing the people who’d recently experienced toxic relationships and just couldn’t get it together and needed more bread.