“He’s not Callum,” I said, tilting a family-size bag of chips to send the final dust tumbling down my throat. I wasn’t just eating my feelings; I was pushing for a crap-induced coma to punctuate my did-I-do-the-right-thing nosedive. I’d silenced my phone to dodge the nonstop texts, voice mails and emails from reporters, bloggers and everyone I’d ever known, all thirsty for—what? The inside smut on dating Edgar? To punish me for detonating such a golden opportunity? To shame me for befouling the royal family? There’d been a horde of paparazzi waiting for me outside our building, yelling fairly obscene questions, as if I was a low-level felon on my courthouse perp walk, handcuffed with my coat draped over my head. I’d absorbed an especially painful fact of Edgar’s life: his emotions, from the dizziest happiness to the most profound grief, had to be polished and performed for public consumption. Like it or not, the world would always be watching, so even someone merely celebrity-adjacent had to construct an attitude, either toughing things out or playing for wide-eyed, caught-in-the-crossfire pity.

I got why stars repeat an identical pose in all photographs, with their legs adroitly angled, their chins down and their palms placed to shield any less-than-ideal body parts. They’re controlling the narrative, at the cost of a grim sameness; they’re turning themselves into blandly almost-smiling, faultless brand ambassadors.

Louise handed me her phone; it was my mom. “Sweetheart, I know you’ve got your phone off but I just needed to know that you’re okay. I saw the photo of you and Edgar and I thought you both looked adorable, a little pasty, but like such a cute couple. And it was so nice to meet him, and I’m just going to say this, he’s a big step up from Callum, who I never trusted, ever since I figured out he was wearing blue contacts.”

There was a knock at our front door, and Adam checked the peephole: “It’s him. Edgar. Do you want to see him?”

“Don’t do it,” advised Louise. “It might be a trap. He probably has his goons with him to shove a bag over your head and drag you to England to be put on trial for looking better than him in the picture.”

“That’s not true,” said Edgar, from behind the door. “I don’t have goons and we both looked good.”

“Let him in,” said my mom, still on the phone, just to me. “At least hear him out.”

I nodded and Adam opened the door and there was Edgar. I couldn’t read his expression, because he’d adopted the gracious, noncommittal, official mask of his public appearances. But he clearly had something to say, a speech he’d been refining on his way over, and maybe he’d run it past James.