I could tell that not only Edgar but James and our driver were eager for my answer. I took a shot at the truth: “Okay. You’re right. I spend too much time worrying about what my family thinks of me, and trying to predict their opinions, and getting scared that I’m turning into them, although that’s already happened. But here’s my real problem: I don’t want to disappoint them. They’re fine with my being gay, and they sort of get why I’m an associate event architect instead of a neurologist or the next Mark Zuckerberg, but when they think about my love life, the jury is still out. Abby fixed me up with three different guys, all doctors she works with, but then she showed up on the dates and told the guys to leave because she thought I could do better. My mom volunteered to go into therapy with me in case she was holding me back, and my dad keeps sending me profiles of different Shakespearean characters he thinks would be great matches for me. And Miriam once texted Callum, my ex-boyfriend, asking him to describe our sex life so she could give pointers. And because she was doing his taxes for free, he did it.”

“And what was her advice?”

“I can’t repeat it, because I only glanced at her bullet points, which included ‘water-based lube’ and ‘advanced nipple play.’ The real point is, my greatest and totally justified fear is that they’re right and I get in my own way and I talk myself out of happiness and I’m barely holding it together. So when I brought you to the wedding, I knew that everyone would be ecstatic beyond belief, and that there’d be enough kvelling to make God complain about the racket.”

“‘Kvelling’?”

“It’s a Yiddish word,” said James, “describing extreme and vocal good wishes. As when your grandmother greets her corgis.”

“Yes, but even beyond the kvell factor, I know they were all looking at you and thinking, ‘How did that happen? He’s too good for Carter,’ and most of all, they were probably placing bets on ‘How is Carter going to fuck this up?’”

Realizing what I’d just said and how far I’d overreached, I was about to open the SUV door and hurl myself onto the turnpike.

“So in other words,” said Edgar, “if I understand this correctly, you’re being you.”

“Yes. So if you’d like to drop me off at a rest stop and head for the airport, I wouldn’t blame you. And I’m still being selfish, because when I was little I loved turnpike rest stops because they have gift shops.”

“No. Because first of all, we’re driving you home.”