“He’s gonna make a grand gesture,” Heaven said the next morning as she absentmindedly chewed on her straw.

“No, he’s not,” I countered. “He would never make a grand gesture at somebody else’s wedding. That’s way rude.”

“Dude. This is the guy who busted out a horse and carriage for your first date. A grand gesture will be made.”

“Are you hoping he makes a grand gesture?” I asked skeptically. “You’re the one who was all, like, ‘This is ending, let it end, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc.’”

“Well, not hoping, exactly, but—”

“I thought you’d be happy!” I interrupted her. “This is it, right? The story of Dylan’s First Kiss now has the tidy ending you wanted. I kissed a guy in a castle. He lied. We never saw each other again, and we’re not even Facebook friends. The end.”

“He didn’t lie, exactly—”

“Yes, he did!” I protested. “Why are you defending him? Whose side are you on?”

“Yours! Of course yours!” She chased the last drops of soda around and sucked them up with her straw. “I’m just sayin’, technically, he didn’t lie.”

“Lie of omission is still a lie. Meemaw says it all the time.”

“Your meemaw!” Heaven brightened. “Is she here?”

“Meemaw insisted on flying in at the very last minute,” Dusty said, eyes closed as a stylish woman in black swabbed eye shadow on her face. “So her feet wouldn’t have to be off American soil for a minute longer than necessary. Tried to get her in for the rehearsal dinner, but that woman is stubborn as a mule.”

“So it’s genetic, then. Y’all bein’ crazy, I mean,” Heaven said.

Meemaw was crazy. But in the best possible way. Like in the kind of way where she only liked to wear sweatshirts with Tweety Bird on them, which was exactly how I was going to dress when I was old. She was also the only short woman in our family. I harbored a secret terror that she’d once been as tall as the rest of us but had shrunk several feet.

“Can we please no longer discuss Meemaw or Dylan’s boy problems? This is supposed to be my special day,” Dusty whined. “Topics of discussion should be limited to how radiant I am.”

I sighed and leaned back on the couch, propping up my feet on Heaven’s lap, keeping a careful hold on the top of my bridesmaid’s dress. I was mostly ready, except I hadn’t zippered up yet. No need for the boning in the waist to crush my ribs before it was absolutely necessary.

Heaven whistled. “Girl, you have big feet.”

“This is not new information.”

“I swear, y’all could pack for a trip to Hawaii in the bags under my eyes.” Anne Marie, Dusty’s errant bridesmaid, had arrived before I got up this morning and was currently surveying her face critically in a hand mirror. “I need more concealer. This med school thing is no joke, y’all!” She tapped vigorously under her eyes, like she was trying to wake up. “I feel like I’m doin’ an experiment on what happens when you replace all the water in your bloodstream with Diet Coke. I’m gonna be the world’s first fully carbonated human being.”

Med school aside, she appeared to be the same crayon-eating Anne Marie I had always known. I made a resolution not to get sick anytime in the near future and scooted farther down on the couch.

“Honestly, Dylan?” Heaven said, ignoring Anne Marie. “I can kind of see where Jamie’s coming from.”

“Excuse me?” I propped myself up on my elbows to get a better look at her.

“It’s like…you know how much you hate it, at home, when everyone’s like, ‘You’re Dusty’s sister? Really? The Dusty Rose Leigh? Oh my Lord, that girl is so perfect she poops diamonds!’?”

I snorted, in spite of myself.

“See? You know exactly what I mean,” Heaven said smugly. “Now imagine that times a bajillion. That’s what Jamie goes through every time he meets someone new. ‘Oh, Your Royal Highness, thank you for blessing us with your princeliness!’” she simpered.

“I don’t care how royal he is. He should have told me. Up front.”

“Should he have, though?” She cocked her head at me like an inquisitive bird. “Be honest with yourself, Dylan. You would have freaked out.”

“Would not.”

“Would, too. Well, maybe ‘freaked out’ is a strong term,” she said, reconsidering, “but it would have changed things, and you know it.”

“Nooo,” I said quietly, but I’m not even sure I believed myself. Maybe it didn’t matter so much how I would or wouldn’t have reacted; what mattered more was how Jamie felt. Heaven was right—being the younger sister of Miss Mississippi was nothing compared to being the only son of a prince. And in all fairness, I don’t think I ever told him my full name, either. Maybe he felt the same way about being a prince that I felt about my middle name being Janis. Which is that I would prefer people not know about it.

“Man.” I sighed. “I acted exactly like one of those dumb girls in a romantic comedy, didn’t I?”

“How to Lose a Prince in Ten Days,” Heaven said.

“I cannot believe I’m getting involved in this,” Dusty piped up. “But I am. And I can’t move ’cause I’m waitin’ for my lash glue to dry, so come over here.”

Grumbling, I hoisted myself up off the couch, carefully holding my dress against my chest. Dusty waved the makeup girl away for the moment and lay back with her eyes closed, lashes resting against her cheeks. They looked like big plastic bugs, so dark and spiky.

“I would just like to say, on principle, that I am not pleased we are having this discussion today. Today is about me. I should be the only thing we are discussing. Today is my special day.”

I rolled my eyes. Then remembered Dusty couldn’t see me.

“Okay, Dusty, I acknowledge your formal complaint. Thanks for indulging me,” I added sarcastically.

“Did you not think to ask your big sister for advice? Your big sister who was once in literally this exact same situation?”

“Oh. Um. Yes. I mean, no,” I said, honestly, sort of embarrassed by my obtuseness. “I didn’t think about it.”

Oddly enough, even in the castle, surrounded by cameras, I had sort of forgotten the whole “in disguise” part of the Prince in Disguise aspect of Dusty and Ronan’s courtship. After all, I did only meet him once when he was still in disguise. For the vast majority of my experience of knowing Ronan, I’d known him as the Right Honorable Lord Whatever. They’d only filmed Prince in Disguise for six weeks, after all. Dusty had spent those six weeks thinking she was just on some Bachelor-type show, and I’d only seen her during the episode where she brought Ronan home to meet us. Ronan had progressed pretty quickly from “I met the cutest boy!” to “Surprise—I’m engaged to a prince!”

“That is because you are dense as a tree stump, sweet li’l Dilly. Especially when it comes to boys.”

I bristled silently in response, but I had no good comeback. Because she was, unfortunately, right.

“I will say this once, clearly, so even you can understand. And then we will go back to today being my special day.” Dusty took a deep breath. I leaned in. “It. Does. Not. Matter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” She cracked one eye open. “Oh, good, they’re dry.” She blinked a few times, fluttering the thickest, darkest lashes I’d ever seen. “You heard me. It doesn’t matter, Dilly. Doesn’t matter one teeny little bit.”

“How does it not matter? He’s a prince, Dusty,” I said almost in a whisper. “A prince. That’s crazy. Too crazy. I don’t know how to talk to a prince!”

“Of course you do, dummy.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been doin’ nothin’ but talkin’ to a prince for the past three weeks.”

“But I didn’t know he was a prince!”

“And it doesn’t change anythin’ now that you do know. It really ain’t all that different from when I dated Ricky Lindsay. His daddy was the Mattress King, remember? Over on 178?”

“Being a prince of England is a little bit different than being a mattress prince, Dusty.”

“Is it, though? I was so intimidated by how big their house was. Little did I know where I’d be movin’ into a couple years later,” she said ruefully. “This ain’t somethin’ Jamie chose. It’s just what he’s been born into. And maybe it’s a bit more rare than bein’ a mattress prince, but the idea’s the same. Who your daddy is doesn’t determine who you are.”

I was silent for a minute, thinking about Cash Keller. I was pretty sure that wasn’t what she meant, but I thought of him just the same. And how he had nothing to do with who I was.

“And I promise, it ain’t that big of a deal,” she continued. “You know the monarchy over here is mostly for show, anyway, right? They just welcome dignitaries and dedicate wings of hospitals and watch the Trooping the Colour and stuff. It’s pretty much just volunteer work.”

“But he lied—”

“Okay, first of all”—she held up one finger for silence as she interrupted me—“Ronan legit, straight-out, full-on lied, gave me a fake last name and a fake hometown and a fake job and everythin’. Lie after lie after lie. But not about anything important.”

“No, just about every single aspect of his identity.”

“That’s not who he is, dummy. Your name isn’t who you are. And I know you know that and you’re just arguin’ with me for the sake of arguin’ with me because apparently that is what you were put on this earth to do.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Put aside your natural tendency to contradict me at every turn and listen.” Those were a lot of big words, coming from Dusty. “He just wanted you to like him for who he is, not who his daddy is. And looks like that’s exactly what happened.”

“Mmrph,” I mumbled noncommittally.

“Don’t leave it like this, Dyl. Tell him it wasn’t cool if you like. But forgive him, and dance with him, and kiss him good-bye. Don’t leave mad.”

“Anythin’ can be repaired, Dylan,” Anne Marie said kindly. “Even a brachial plexus injury.”

I scowled at the two of them, just on the principle of the thing, but privately, I felt they were right. Even if I didn’t know what a brachial plexus was.

“Nothing’s changed. He’s the same big ol’ goofball who likes you,” Dusty said. “Crown or no crown. So who cares if he’s a prince?”

“Did you know he was a prince?” I asked suspiciously.

“Hell no. Ronan didn’t mention anything about it, and I’ve got better things to do with my time than google Ronan’s groomsmen. There are too many royals over here to keep track of.”

“Even I didn’t know he was a prince, Dyl,” Heaven piped up. “And I have a Royal Wedding mug.”

She’d bought it at a tag sale for fifty cents and kept pencils in it, but still. I supposed that showed some interest in the royal family.

“It doesn’t matter who knew, anyway.” Dusty shrugged. “What matters is that you make things right.”

“Oh God.” I swallowed noisily. “Does this mean I have to make some kind of grand gesture?”

Visions danced through my head, each more horrifying than the last. Me serenading Jamie with a microphone and karaoke machine. Me showing up with a bunch of posters that said To Me, You Are Perfect. Me standing outside the castle with a boom box above my head. Dunyvaig had, like, four hundred windows. I would never find Jamie’s room.

“No!” Dusty shouted. “Just be normal, Dilly.”

“Dusty!” Suddenly, Mom burst into the room, so out of breath she was panting, hands on her knees. “I don’t know how she did—but she did—and she’s—Oh, fudge.” Mom looked straight at Dusty. “She knows. And she’s coming.”

Dusty went white under her foundation. And her spray tan.

“Gird your loins, ladies,” she said grimly. “The She-Beast approaches.”

“Is this gonna be like the Kappa formal?” Anne Marie sprang to her feet. “Gosh darnit, I took my rings off.” She cracked her knuckles menacingly.

Maybe Anne Marie was slightly more interesting than I’d remembered her being.

“What’s happening now?” Heaven quietly asked me.

“Um…she knows…she’s coming…” I quickly put the pieces together. “Oh no. Florence found out about the baby. And she’s on her way.”

Heaven’s jaw dropped as my stomach did somersaults of distress. I guess I wasn’t surprised—ever since Mrs. McGregor let news of Dusty’s bun in the oven slip, I’d known this was coming—but I thought it was low, even for Pamela, to drop the baby bomb mere hours before the wedding.

Florence strode through the door, nostrils quivering with rage. She was flanked by a gleeful Pamela and a second cameraman, who scooted into the corner, careful to keep out of the shot of the cameraman who was already in there.

“You!” Florence boomed, advancing toward Dusty. There was something clutched in her outstretched hand. Looked like a small white plastic stick. “You…you…scheming, predatory, manipulative, conniving—”

“Choose your next word carefully, Mommie Dearest.” Dusty was wearing nothing but a white silk robe bedazzled with Bride on the back, but she still managed to look downright menacing. Maybe it was because she towered over Florence, even in her stockinged feet. “Don’t wanna say somethin’ you might regret. We’re about to be family.”

“Only because of your…your…chicanery!”

Chicanery? This was so awful, but if you closed your eyes and listened it sounded like we were in a Victorian showdown.

“Why don’t you stop it with the SAT vocab words and just say it straight out to my face exactly what you’re accusin’ me of, hmm?” Florence might have been on fire with rage, but Dusty was stone-cold cool. And I was kind of in awe.

“Of…this!” Florence stuck the white stick up under Dusty’s nose. The sleeves of her emerald-green silk blazer fell back to reveal an enormous bangle in the shape of what looked like a badger. It momentarily distracted me from the white stick. “You tricked my son into marrying you! Finally, it all makes sense!”

“Dude, that’s a pregnancy test,” Heaven whispered.

“How did she get that? Did Lady Florence go Dumpster diving?” I whispered in disbelief.

“But I didn’t—How did you—I don’t understand.” Dusty’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t take a pregnancy test here.”

Someone coughed discreetly from behind us. I swiveled to look. My money was on Pamela.

“It doesn’t matter where it came from,” Florence said hurriedly.

Dusty didn’t take a pregnancy test here, but Florence had a pregnancy test. I felt like my mind was whirring at a million miles an hour. Pamela had found out about Dusty’s pregnancy. And then the show had planted a fake pregnancy test for Florence to find. Or just told Florence Dusty was pregnant and handed her a prop. Whatever had happened, it was seriously messed up.

“What matters is what it proves,” Florence insisted. “You’re pregnant!”

Dusty’s ice-cold resolve had melted. She looked…tired. Sighing, she placed a protective hand over her belly and closed her eyes.

“Wait!” I cried, not sure why exactly I was speaking. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this, okay?” I looked past Florence to Pamela. Florence was awful and a total snob, but I knew who was really behind this. “We all know the production team planted the test. Just drop the story line. Please.”

“Dylan,” Pamela said icily, all traces of her usual fake smile long gone. “We already had a discussion about cooperating. This is the exact opposite of cooperating. Please don’t speak to me and stop looking at the cameras. Return to business as usual.”

“Wait. Please,” I begged. “If you drop this story line, I’ll do something really interesting. I swear. I’ll flip over a table. I’ll throw my drink at Jamie! No, I’ll punch Jamie!” Pamela didn’t look nearly as interested as I’d hoped she would. I decided to try a different tactic. “No, never mind. We’ll make up. And I’ll sneak into his room at night. And you can film it with a night-vision camera like they do on Bachelor Pad.”

“Good gravy, Dylan!” Mom yelped.

“I’m not saying I’m gonna do anything when I’m in the room; I’m just saying I’ll go in the room! You can edit it in whatever incriminating way you’d like!”

“I’m not sure that’s better,” Heaven said.

“I’d feel better about it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mom said firmly.

“Thanks for offering to pretend-whore yourself out for me, baby sister,” Dusty said, and much to my surprise, she was smiling. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

“I love you, Dusty,” I said, embarrassed but needing to say it anyway. “Even when we fight, I’m on your side. Always. You’re my family. And so’s the baby.”

“Don’t make me cry, dummy; I’ll ruin my makeup,” she sniffled, and pulled me in for a hug. I was shocked to feel a small, but noticeable, bump that had definitely not been there before.

“All right, now, y’all, let’s calm down.” Dusty pulled herself out of the hug, patting away nonexistent mascara stains from under her eyes. “There is absolutely no need for you to engage in any of those reality-show theatrics, Dylan, although I appreciate the offer. I’ve got this. Pamela.” Dusty turned and looked her dead in the eyes. “I’ll take it from here.”

Then Dusty took a deep breath, turned to Florence, and said, “Yes, I’m pregnant. And we couldn’t be happier about it. For the record, I found out I was pregnant after we got engaged, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I love your son. And he loves me. And that’s why we’re gettin’ married, not because I tricked him or trapped him. You and I both know I ain’t after his money, because he doesn’t have any. And I don’t give a flyin’ crap about bein’ the next Lady Dunleavy.” Florence’s nostrils quivered in distaste as I stifled a giggle. “Seriously. You can keep the title, and I’ll just be plain old Mrs. Murray. That is fine by me.” Dusty took a deep breath. “We are buildin’ a family together. A family. And that means somethin’ to me. So I suggest you get on board. Because I am goin’ absolutely nowhere. And I ain’t scared of you. ’Cause I’m from Mississippi,” Dusty said proudly. “And we Southern girls take crap from nobody. Ya hear?”

I’m not sure who was more surprised when Dusty poked Florence in the chest, Dusty or Florence. Florence looked down at Dusty’s French-manicured finger in disbelief, then back up at Dusty with an expression that looked like admiration.

“Do we understand each other?” Dusty asked, flushed.

“I believe we do,” Florence said crisply. “And I believe you may do rather well, after all. All appearances to the contrary.” She sniffed. “I suppose you’d better finish getting ready. It’s terribly bad form to be late to one’s own wedding.”

And with that, she turned on her sensible heels and left, Pamela and one of the cameramen following her.

“Well, hot damn, baby.” Dusty patted her stomach. “This is a moment when I could really use a drink,” she said ruefully.

“Wow…That was…Wow.” Heaven shook her head in disbelief. “Dylan, I think your sister might be my hero.”

“I think she might be mine, too,” I said softly.

Dusty looked up at me, surprised, but then smiled a real, genuine smile. Nothing like her pageant smile.

“I’ll drink for you!” Anne Marie volunteered. She raised a glass of mimosa that had materialized seemingly from out of nowhere. “To Mississippi girls!”

“To sisters,” I said.

“To babies,” Heaven suggested.

“To my girls,” Mom said.

“To all of that, and all y’all,” Dusty said, a note of finality in her voice. “Now drink that mimosa, beautiful.”

Anne Marie raised her glass high, as Heaven made little whooping noises. Mom reached out to take one of my hands, and one of Dusty’s.

It was funny—I might have been four thousand miles from Tupelo, but right then, I was home.