“No,” I say. “But I’m trying to complain less.”

She catches me glancing toward Miles and snorts. “If you’re trying to emulate my brother, I wish you the best of luck. No one can repress negative emotions like him. He’s had too much practice.”

He looks, as ever, like human sunshine, totally engaged, completely interested in this stranger, and it makes my chest pinch. “I’d assumed the sunny disposition came naturally.”

“I mean,” she says, “we had the same upbringing and I didn’t turn out Chronically Fine, so I guess in a way, it’s natural. When I was a kid, and he’d moved to the city, he used to come back and pick me up every Saturday for breakfast at McDonald’s. I’d spend the whole time trying to get under his skin, because I was the worst. But I could never get a rise out of him. He’s excellent at ignoring the bad stuff.”

“What about you?” I ask.

Julia chokes over a laugh. “Oh, I invite the bad stuff to try to fuck with me.”

Having finally extricated himself from Hot Mom, Miles joins us. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Julia says innocently, right as I say, “Your sister wants to get into a knife fight.”

“I’ll call Gill,” Miles says. “We can get her a kitten at the same time.”

“Am I missing something?” Julia asks.

Ashleigh sidles up then too. “Just one of their adorable best friend jokes,” she tells Julia. “You must be the sister.”

“You must be the friend I’m either going to love or hate,” Julia says.

Ashleigh’s shoulders wiggle, half shiver. “Intriguing.”

“Should be fun either way,” Julia says. “So should we all head to Cherry Hill, throw tiny pretzels at Miles while he’s working?”

“We don’t serve pretzels,” Miles says, audibly offended.

“As amazing as that sounds,” I say, “I need to get some promotional stuff finished for the Read-a-thon.”

“And I was thinking I’d do meal prep tonight, so I can be worry-free tomorrow—” Ashleigh interrupts herself with a gasp, looking to Miles. “I just figured out where we should go. We should take them to Barn.”

“Barn?” I say. “As in . . . a building on a farm?”

“As in a bar, in a barn,” Miles says. “On a farm.”

“There is no place on this earth,” I say, “like Waning Bay.”

“Barn has goats,” Ashleigh offers, peeling away from us to help a couple of patrons check out before we close for the day. “You’ll love it.”

Julia’s phone pings and she checks it. “Weren’t you supposed to be at work by four forty-five?” she asks Miles.

“Shit!” He moves toward the doors, Julia still texting as she shuffles after him. He turns over his shoulder and calls, “Sunrise is before six. Be ready at five thirty.”

“Five,” I counter. “Are you coming, Julia?”

“At five in the morning?” she says sunnily. “I’d rather eat aluminum foil. But you two have a blast.”

I creep out of my bedroom at four fifty-eight a.m., tiptoe past Julia, snoring on the sofa, to the kitchen, sandals in hand. I flick on the light beneath the mounted microwave and drink a glass of water while I wait for Miles to emerge from his room.

Five o’clock comes and goes.

Then five oh five.

Five eleven.

I’m trying not to be unreasonably grumpy, but this is fuck-everything early, even for me, and if there’s one thing I truly hate, it’s waiting on people.

Several dozen unhappy memories cycle through me, a worst-of film reel, and I’m too tired to adequately bat them away.

So while I’m yawning so hard my jaw pops, I’m also back in Mom’s and my first apartment without Dad, waiting by the front window, looking up every time a junker sputters past.

Waiting on the snowy curb outside my elementary school, dragging my boot toes through blackened slush, telling myself that if I count to one hundred, Dad will be here. And if not, then by the time I reach two hundred and fifty. Counting and waiting until my mom pulled up, stressed out and still in her work heels, apologizing through the open car window, on his behalf: Sorry, sorry, something came up, I guess.

Waiting at the mailbox for birthday cards to show up.

Waiting for a phone call on Christmas.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting, for someone who rarely came, feeling worse every time, until finally, I realized that the feelings wouldn’t stop until the waiting did.

You can’t force a person to show up, but you can learn a lesson when they don’t.

Trust people’s actions, not their words.

Don’t love anyone who isn’t ready to love you back.

Let go of the people who don’t hold on to you.

Don’t wait on anyone who’s in no rush to get to you.

I consider crawling back into bed and finishing a polish on the upcoming Read-a-thon publicity blast. Then the front door clanks open, a slice of light pouring from the hall.

“Hey,” Miles whispers, lifting the thermoses in his hands. “You ready?”

“Been ready since five,” I tell him.

He leans forward and peers around the cupboard to see the oven clock. “Shit.” He passes me one of the thermoses. “I gave myself an extra fifteen minutes, and there was no line, but then I got caught up talking to the barista and . . . anyway, I’m sorry, Daphne.”

I shake my head, the grumpiness clearing. Miles is doing me the favor here. “It’s fine.” I slip my feet into my sandals. “Let’s go.”

It’s cooler outside than in our apartment, the nip in the air making my arms and legs tingle. I can feel my leg hair growing and wonder why I bothered shaving last night.