“What I’d prefer is this,” Edgar went on. “We were having such a lovely time, and I don’t want that interrupted. If you disagree and have deduced that I’m a bonehead, a jellyfish and a rotten deal overall and that you’re lucky to have fled my pampered royal clutches, I can’t argue the point. Although I might add that your mother did request guest soaps from a palace loo, that you remember to wear the russet suede jacket which she likes so much, and which she gave you, and that you follow your heart. What I’m saying is, let’s find out where this goes. Let’s try to circumvent the world and the media and all of those prying eyes and chattering voices.”

“Do we get a vote?” asked Louise.

“I vote yes!” said Adam, vigorously raising his hand, “and DuShawn’s at rehearsal, which means I have his proxy, so that means two votes yes!”

“Louise?” asked Edgar.

“Well, I think you’re the enemy of equality and human rights and any halfway decent form of socialism. And that in a perfect world you’d be forced to get a job without health insurance or sick days or parental leave. And you’d sell the crown jewels and donate the proceeds to the homeless, Black Lives Matter, that fund for women candidates of color and buying me a new MacBook.”

“And you also have to find Louise a new girlfriend,” Adam improvised, and Louise concurred wholeheartedly.

“So that’s a yes?” asked Edgar.

“Yeah,” said Louise, still skeptical. “But only because Carter really needs to get laid more often, and from what Adam and DuShawn and I overheard, it sounded like you guys were at least getting started.”

“Carter?”

The millions of voices in my head had launched an epic election-year-caliber debate, bellowing opposing positions regarding self-respect, guarantees, the feeble odds for love and the ironclad certainty of catastrophe. But I came across an emotional override function, which might’ve just been installed as an upgrade. I looked into Edgar’s eyes and saw that his smile was being held in check until I’d answered. I couldn’t be responsible for imprisoning that smile, and I had feelings for Edgar that were so strong I couldn’t go anywhere near them, not yet, and I argued that whatever happened or didn’t happen, I could always blame my mother.

Adam gave me his phone. It was Abby, FaceTiming me from her honeymoon on Bali. Behind her were palm trees, miles of white sand and Dane in sunglasses and board shorts with zinc oxide on his nose.

“Mom just filled me in on everything,” she said. “And I saw the pictures online, and everyone in Bali agrees that both of you guys should at least think about self-tanner, but we all agree Edgar’s shoulders are to die for.”

Dane raised his ice-blue tropical cocktail with a pineapple wedge and a hibiscus.