After several seconds, I say, “You were right that he’s still jealous. He really can’t stand the fact that anyone might like you. Thinks it’s, like, a direct condemnation of his character. And you know what? Maybe it is.”

Miles’s head cocks on a knowing smirk. “It’s not about me. It’s you. He wants you both. He’s with Petra, but he still wants you to be in love with him.”

“Right, because if I’m into someone who’s totally different than him, it’s a blow to his ego.” I backtrack immediately. “You know, if he thinks I’m dating someone who’s super different from him.”

Miles shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it. He took a big leap, and now that the initial high is wearing off, he’s wondering if he did the right thing. And then seeing you with someone else reminds him what it was like to be with you.”

I catch myself worrying at my lower lip. When his gaze drops toward the motion, I stop. “He said something about you,” I blurt.

Instantly wish I could take it back.

Miles’s brow rises.

“He was just being shitty,” I repeat. “And it made me mad. And that’s why . . .”

He folds his arms, his face going neutral. His face is very rarely neutral. “What’d he say?”

There’s a lump in my throat. “First of all, keep in mind you don’t owe me any kind of explanation.”

“Daphne,” he says, like, Cut to the chase.

“He said your family doesn’t talk to you.”

The reaction is instantaneous and unsubtle. A flare of shock. Hurt.

He turns, messes with the asparagus again.

“He was acting like an asshole,” I say.

He nods without facing me, his shoulders tight, so unlike his usual lax and languid self.

I forge on: “Like I said, you don’t owe me any explanation. He just brought it up to be a jerk, and it’s none of my business.”

He nods, still tense.

Shit. I played right into Peter’s hands. He found a way to hurt Miles from afar, for having the audacity to love Peter’s best friend, and then, allegedly, his ex.

I step up behind Miles and set my hands on his shoulders, gently easing them down. He lets out a deep, tired exhale. I resist an urge to push my face into the gap between his shoulder blades.

“Miles?” I say.

He looks over his shoulder at me, the light catching the streaks of dark brown in his eyes, lightening them to a maple-syrup amber.

“I’m sorry for saying anything,” I say.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

He turns toward me, my hands skating over his back, coming to rest on his shoulders. He catches my wrists in light, loose circles, his gaze falling. “Sorry, I’m . . .” He takes a breath. “I guess I’m surprised Petra told him that. I just . . . I barely even talked about that stuff with her.”

I press my palms against his trapezius muscles, trying to release the tension from them. His thumbs move back and forth on the sides of my wrists, restless. I get the sense he’s trying to soothe and distract himself. It’s doing the opposite to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

His head jerks slightly to one side. “It’s true. I don’t really have a relationship with my parents. It is what it is, and I can’t change it. But so much of life’s good. What’s the point of dwelling on the shit that’s not?”

“Wow. I couldn’t relate less,” I tease gently. “I’m a born complainer.”

He smiles, just a bit. “You are not.”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “My mom and I used to play this game we called Whiny Babies. We’d just take turns complaining about smaller and stupider things until we ran out. Like, the girl I sat next to in English lit chewed her pencil really loudly. Whoever had the smallest complaint got to choose dinner.”

The corner of his mouth curls. “Sounds like a blast.”

“It was, actually,” I say. “Sometimes complaining about stuff, just having someone to empathize with you, takes the sting out of it.”

“There’s no sting,” Miles says. “It’s fine. I’ve got my sister. That’s my family.”

“I guess all families are complicated, one way or another.” I think of my empty driveway, of standing barefoot on the floor vent, letting the heat billow through my pajamas as I watched the window and waited. To be worth it, to be chosen.

The corner of Miles’s mouth hitches. “Petra’s was basically a Norman Rockwell painting.”

I sigh. “Yeah, Peter’s too.”

Miles looks up at me from under a slightly furrowed brow, his thumbs still gliding back and forth along my wrists. “Were you close?” he asks. “With Peter’s parents.”

My chest pinches. “Sort of. I mean, maybe not close. But they were always really nice. His mom came wedding dress shopping with me and my mom. And she got a monogrammed Christmas stocking made for me to match his and his brother’s. They’re the kind of family with a million traditions. Certain plates and specific desserts for each of their birthdays. Every single thing in their house was some kind of heirloom with some great story, and he and his brother, Ben, would argue over who’d inherit what someday, but in this jokey way. The whole extended family always comes here for New Year’s Eve and they do a white elephant gift exchange, and it’s all very . . . I don’t know. I just really wanted . . .”

“To be a part of it?” Miles guesses.

I nod.

“Yeah,” he says.

I hadn’t heard anything from any of Peter’s local friends after the breakup, not even Scott. But both his mom and his brother’s girlfriend, Kiki, sent messages in those first couple weeks. Kiki told me to hit her up if I were ever in Grand Rapids, and I knew she meant it.

Mrs. Collins’s message, however, had only read: thinking of you, with a little purple heart beside it.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “what Peter said—it sounded like he didn’t really know what he was talking about. Like he got the CliffsNotes from Petra and made the rest up. I doubt she was harping on you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “She wouldn’t.”

There’s a levity to his voice, but he looks uncommonly distant, halfway here with me and halfway deep inside his skull.

It’s surprising, how powerful the urge to comfort him is, how comfortable it feels to let myself lean against him in one of only a handful of hugs to pass between us in the months we’ve lived together.

His hands slide down my arms to wrap across my back. We stand there for several seconds, tangled up together.

“Want to go egg his car?” I mumble into his chest.