At that moment, Ashleigh extricates her tongue from Greg-Craig’s mouth and flounces our way. “So.” With a furtive glance over her shoulder, she drops her voice. “What are the odds you can ride home with Miles?”
I look to him.
He flips his keys. “Fine with me.”
“Thank god.” Ashleigh gives me a brief, firm, yet vanilla-scented hug. “Don’t make this weird at work, okay?”
“What, the fact that I’ve now seen someone lick your tonsils?” I say.
“It was bound to happen eventually! Get home safe, lovebirds.” She’s already on her way back to Greg-Craig. He slips a hand through hers and waves as she steers him outside.
“So,” Miles says, “Craig’s friend wasn’t up to your standards?”
I’m embarrassed to realize Miles witnessed my painful attempt at conversation with Craig’s wingman, a guy in a V-neck so deep I caught a flash of belly button.
“I wasn’t up to his standards,” I say. “He got a pretty urgent work-related text and excused himself. Then I went to the bathroom, and when I passed him, he was playing solitaire on his phone at the far side of the bar.”
“What the fuck,” Miles says.
“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.”
