“In his defense,” I say, “I’m absolutely horrible at small talk with new people.”

“I don’t believe you, at all,” he says.

“Within three minutes,” I say, “I caught myself listing my food sensitivities. I think it’s like a self-sabotaging self-protective thing, where I try to bore new people away.”

Miles looks horrified. “You should have told me you had food sensitivities before I ordered for you.”

“It’s not, like, EpiPen serious,” I say, following him to the door.

“Still,” he says. “And if I’d known you needed help with the Solitaire King of Northern Michigan, I could’ve rustled up a pack of cards from the break room. You’d have been unstoppable.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be unstoppable, anyway.”

He holds the door open for me. “What about milkshakes?”

“What about them?” I say.

“Are you in the mood for one,” he says. “Because I’ve been thinking about Big Louie’s all night.”

“Who’s Big Louise,” I say, stepping out into the still night, “and does she know how much you think about her?”

“Big Louie’s Drive-In?” The string lights ringing the gravel lot softly illuminate his look of surprise. “You’ve never been to Big Louie’s?”

“No?” I say.

He stops short, looking at me with outright shock.

“Is it a burger place?” I ask.

He scoffs. “Is it a burger place?” He veers left toward his rust-edged truck.

“I don’t even know if that’s a yes or a no, Miles,” I say.

He manually unlocks the passenger door. “That’s a Get in the car, Daphne; I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

I hoist myself into the seat, leaning over to unlock the driver’s-side door as Miles rounds the hood.

As soon as he starts the car, “The Tracks of My Tears” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles comes on full blast.

A deceptively happy-sounding song about being incredibly depressed.

I try and fail to swallow a laugh.

Miles gives a sheepish smile. “No idea how that got on.”

“This truck is probably haunted,” I agree.

“Exactly.” He pulls out along the gravel drive. “And if the soundtrack to A Star Is Born starts playing, just don’t be alarmed. Because the ghost likes that one too.”

“This ghost gets more tragic by the second,” I say.

“He’s perfectly fine, thank you,” Miles says.

“Thriving?” I ask.

“Thriving,” he agrees.

“Well, if he’s got any tips for the rest of us,” I say, “have him hit me up.”

“Daphne,” he says. “The first piece of advice anyone is going to give you for improving your situation is going to Big Louie’s. How is it possible you’ve lived here for . . .”

“Thirteen months,” I supply.

“Thirteen entire months,” he says, “and haven’t had their Petoskey fries.”

“What are Petoskey fries?” I ask.

He tuts. “No wonder you’re so depressed.”

“Is this place in Petoskey? Are we driving an hour and a half for fries?”

“No, they’re named after Petoskey stones.”

“Which are . . . ?”

The country road has reached a four-way stop, and he essentially pulls over to look at me. “Daphne.”

“Such an air of disappointment. Every time you say my name.”

“Was Peter keeping you locked inside a bunker?” he says.

“Just tell me about these rocks, Miles.”

“They’re fossilized coral,” he says, like this should be obvious. He eases off the brake and we roll through the empty intersection.

I say, “And this is connected to french fries . . . ?”

“Tenuously,” Miles answers. “But they’re amazing. The fries, I mean. They’re slathered in cheese and jalapeños.”

“Well, that explains why I’ve never had them,” I say. “Peter isn’t a big slatherer. He’s more of a wheatgrass-shot-and-lean-meat-after-leg-day kind of guy.”

“What?” Miles says, faintly amused. “You weren’t allowed to eat without Peter?”

I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t about ‘being allowed.’ I don’t know how to cook. He does.”

On our second date, he’d made me dinner. Salmon and asparagus and a keto-friendly pasta salad. I would’ve been less impressed to learn he was an Olympian. Cooking was the one thing Mom didn’t do while I was growing up. We lived on takeout, and weekly nacho nights. But Peter started every day with a green smoothie, and made dinner from scratch most nights. Peak domesticity, as far as I was concerned.

A couple months into living together, he’d tried teaching me the basics, but I always slowed things down too much, so I’d moved back to dishes duty.