Well. It will matter, you know. It will always matter. — Casey McQuiston

"Its public knowledge. Its not my problem you just found out," his mother is saying, pacing double-time down a West Wing corridor. "You mean to tell me," Alex half shouts, jogging to keep up, "every Thanksgiving, those stupid turkeys have been staying in a luxury suite at the Willard on the taxpayers dime?" "Yes, Alex, they do-" "Gross government waste!" "-and there are two forty-pound turkeys named Cornbread and Stuffing in a motorcade on Pennsylvania Avenue right now. There is no time to reallocate the turkeys." Without missing a beat, he blurts out, "Bring them to the house." "Where? Are you hiding a turkey habitat up your ass, son? Where, in our historically protected house, am I going to put a couple of turkeys until I pardon them tomorrow?" "Put them in my room. I dont care." She outright laughs. "No." "How is it different from a hotel room? Put the turkeys in my room, Mom." "Im not putting turkeys in your room." "Put the turkeys in my room." "No." "Put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room-" That night, as Alex stares into the cold, pitiless eyes of a prehistoric beast of prey, he has a few regrets."

"Alex clenches his jaw. Hes used to doing things that piss his mother off- in his teens, he had a penchant for confronting his mothers cilleagues with their voting discrepancies at friendly DC fundraisers- and hes been in the tabloids for things more embarrassing than this. But never in quite such a cataclysmically, internationally terrible way. "I dont have time to deal with this right now, so heres what were gonna do," Ellen says, pulling a folder out of her padfolio. Its filtered with some official-looking documents punctuated with different colors of sticky tabs, and the first one says: AGREEMENT OF TERMS. "Um," Alex says. "You," Ellen says, "are going to make nice with Henry." Youre leaving Saturday and spending Sunday in England." Alex blinks. "Is it too late to take the faking-my-death option?" "Zahra can brief you on the rest," Ellen goes on, ignoring him. "I have about five hundred meetings right now." She gets up and heads for the door, stopping to kiss her hand and press it to the top of her head. "Youre a dumbass. Love you."

"Alex wouldnt say he likes Henry, but he does enjoy the quick rhythm of arguments they fall into. He knows he talks too much, hopeless at moderating his feelings, which he usually hides under ten layers of charm, but he ultimately doesnt care what Henry thinks of him, so he doesnt bother. Instead, hes as weird and manic as he wants to be, and Henry jabs back in sharp flashes of startling wit."

"Thats not your emails-from-Zahra face," Nora says, nosing her way over his shoulder. He elbows her away. "You keep doing that stupid smile every time you look at your phone. Who are you texting?" "I dont know what youre talking about, and literally no one," Alex tells her. From the screen in his hand, Henrys message reads, In worlds most boring meeting with Philip. Dont let the papers print lies about me after Ive garroted myself with my tie."

"Even before Alexs parents split, they both had a habit of calling him by the others last name when he exhibited particular traits. They still do. When he runs his mouth off to the press, his mom calls him into her office and says, "Get your shit together, Diaz." When his hard-headedness gets him stuck, his dad texts him, "Let it go, Claremont."

"Outside Kensington Palace, Alex takes Henrys phone out of his hand and swiftly opens a blank contact page before he can protest or sic a PPO on him for violating royal property. The car is waiting to take him back to the royals private airstrip. "Here," Alex says. "Thats my number. If were gonna keep this up, its going to get annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. Well figure it out." Henry stares at him, expression blankly bewildered, and Alex wonders how this guy has any friends. "Right," Henry says. "Thank you." "No booty calls," Alex tells him, and Henry chokes on a laugh."