She swooped toward us and kissed me and then Edgar as if we were her human good luck charms. Edgar blushed, smiled and, with what I can only call amazing grace, nodded Abby toward the altar, where Dane, her befuddled groom, awaited. Abby sailed toward her husband-to-be as the rabbi was explaining to him, “He’s Prince Edgar of England,” and then, helpfully, so Dane wouldn’t feel jealous, “Gay.”

CHAPTER 11

The reception was held in a ballroom, one of many, at the nearby Grande Park Chateau Reception Arena and Conference Center, a rambling catering hall designed in an architectural style best described as “Neoclassical Jersey Mob Boss,” which meant columns, fiberglass statuary and floral arrangements sent to colonize Earth.

Edgar and I were seated at the bridesmaids’ table, at the take-no-prisoners demand of six thirtyish women wearing not-terrible magenta and powder blue gowns, by which I mean they didn’t resemble 1950s Chevrolets, along with rhinestone headbands bisecting their foreheads, as if they were all recovering from some glamorous, matching surgery. They’d been devoted to Abby since preschool, and were now marketing analysts, dermatologists and CEOs of companies that bedazzled sports bras. Like Abby, they were sharply perceptive, rowdy and not in any way shy.

“First off,” said Kaitlynn Blatt, a team leader at Amazon, to Edgar, “Are you absolutely one hundred percent sure you’re gay, because you are so incredibly cute.”

“Edgar,” I interrupted, “you don’t have to answer that—”

“Shut up,” Kaitlynn informed me. “We’re not talking to you. We’re talking to him.”

“Thank you so much,” said Edgar, “but I’m afraid I’m a one hundred percenter. Although if I were not, I would hope to be placed at precisely this table, among so many supremely appealing young women.”

“Ooooo,” the bridesmaids whooped in unison, as Kaitlynn told Edgar, “You’re good.”

“Moving on,” said Ginnifer Warston-Brasnow, a hospitality services coordinator for Hilton. “So how long have the two of you been dating? Is it serious? Are you monogamous? Are there rings? Have you been in counseling? How many times have you broken up?”

“Ginnifer,” said Edgar, who I’d noticed was able to remember every stranger’s name instantly, “those are all fascinating and important questions, but let’s just say that Carter and I have only known each other a short while, but we’re having the very best time.”

I joined in the resulting swoon, because this was Edgar’s first public acknowledgment of our relationship, and while “the very best time” was diplomatic, it made my heart soar.

“But someday,” said Shannyn Weiner, who sold huge novelty wineglasses etched with the phrase “Mommy-Size” online, “and I’m not just talking about Carter, but it could be Carter, do you want to get married?”

There was a pause, during which I strove to seem nonchalant or even bored, but the question had transformed me into a seventh yearning bridesmaid, hungry for any crumb of commitment.