‘‘Very much so.’’

When Edgar said this, I not only froze, I pretty much blacked out, because the truth is: I am my sister. Times a billion. Because when we were growing up and I became her bridal assistant, I spent an equal amount of time imagining outfits, honeymoon islands with suites set on pilings in the bluest oceans, and sexual positions for Ken and my G.I. Joe, who for some reason I named Drew. Gay marriage hadn’t yet become legal, but I’d bypassed that fact without hesitation, because I’d believed in true love, which called for a wedding of tasteful yet still Moulin Rouge production number glory, meaning Ken would enter the Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art astride a unicorn to wed Drew in his suit of armor on his motorcycle.

I know that some gay kids are forced to disguise both their true selves and their most dearly held fantasies, but I was lucky: thanks to a supportive family and a stubbornly romantic nature, I’d refused to be anyone but myself. Which, when it comes to grown-up love, can become incredibly dangerous.

My years with Callum had confirmed what I’d been suspecting: love is unstable, unknowable and a trap. Callum had said he’d loved me and we’d talked about marriage and even indulged in daydreams of sharing a seaside cottage years down the road (although since he hated cottages, Callum had opted for a Hamptons glass and steel box). But when Callum had lied and cheated on me and we’d fought, I hadn’t been surprised because I wasn’t enough—handsome enough, smart enough, sexy enough or seductively mysterious enough—to justify another human being’s love. I was too weird, too aware of surfaces, too anxious about everything and, finally, too frightened. I was a bad bet, hopelessly damaged goods, nothing special or not special enough. I was me, and that would always be the unfixable glitch. I was an associate event architect, never an event. I was the person who could assist other peoples’ happiness, I could frame their joy and celebrate their great good fortune, but not my own.

So when Edgar expressed such an enthusiastic interest in marriage and the bridesmaids hugged themselves and relied on me for agreement, and to ratify their own most heartfelt dreams, I did what I always do. I looked around for my mother.

“Your Highness,” she said, her hands on my shoulders and directing the royal title to me. My mom had been waiting her whole life to use this particular joke; she loves a good punch line almost as much as she loves me. On some level she considers me her finest punch line.

“So are you going to introduce me, or are you too ashamed?” she asked.

“I pick too ashamed.”

“Shut up. Prince Edgar, hello, I’m Sarah Ogden, Carter’s mom. Has he mentioned that he has one?”