“I didn’t tell them how it was going,” I say quickly.
“Uh-oh,” my dad mutters, looking back and forth between us. “Should we change the subject?”
Miranda grins. “No, it’s fine. Long story short? I’m not a very good driver.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” my mom says, ever the optimist.
Miranda nods emphatically. “Oh no, it’s definitely true.”
My parents turn to me. I shrug. “She’s… not the best.”
Audrey snorts. “Oh my gosh, cut her some slack.”
“Saying she’s not the best is cutting her some slack,” I scoff.
Miranda giggles. “It’s true. I’m really not picking it up that well. It just doesn’t come naturally to me. And I feel stupidbecause I’m twenty-seven, and I should know how to drive, but as I was explaining to Miles… I just never really had the opportunity.”
She gestures lightly as she talks, warming into the story.
“Hanging out with Anna my whole life, she was driven everywhere. She always had a driver and a bodyguard, people around her to take care of every little thing. I never needed to learn. When we traveled, we always had a car service. Now that Anna’s settling down and our life is becoming more normal, I wanted to start driving.” She looks at me and gives me a playful wink. “And my dear friend Miles has been so graciously trying to help me—even though I’ve almost killed us like a million times.”
“It really can’t be that bad,” my mom tries again.
“No, it’s that bad,” Miranda and I say at the same time, laughing.
And I’m relieved. The awkward tension from the earlier question about her mother melts away.
“But she’ll get it down,” I say. “Right, Dad? It just takes time.”
“Yep.” My dad nods firmly. “It just takes time. Everyone can learn how to drive. You just have to be patient and keep practicing.”
Miranda sighs dramatically. “Yep, that’s what Miles says. I’m not giving up. I’m going to keep trying—even if it’s taking a little bit longer than it should.”
The rest of the get-together runs smoothly. No one asks Miranda anything about her past, keeping the conversation firmly planted in the present. Little by little, I watch her ease back into her bright, carefree self.
It helps that Miranda could talk about organizing—and the thrill she gets from a perfectly structured schedule—all day long. And my dad could listen all day long. He’s fascinated by every corner of the movie world, even the mundane stuff. To him, hearing about scheduling a call with an agent or coordinatingwith a hairstylist is just as captivating as hearing about a red carpet premiere. If it has anything to do with Hollywood, he’s locked in. And Miranda? She can talk about those kinds of things without hesitation.
The food is incredible, the conversation is easy, and the afternoon turns out better than I could have hoped. I don’t know why, but having my family and my Miranda worlds finally overlap feels… significant. Important.
My parents talk about my upcoming games and which ones they’ll try to attend. They always do their best to show up, and I love that about them. Eventually, we say our goodbyes, exchange hugs, and watch them head out the door.
“Well,” I say, “I’d say the pasta was a hit.”
She scrapes the last of the leftovers into a container and puts it in the fridge. “Yeah, everyone seemed to really enjoy it. But I mean… who couldn’t love this food? We knew it was good.”
I grin. “Yeah, we definitely picked well.”
“Do you think we should head out for a driving lesson after we’re done cleaning up?” I ask.
Miranda’s head drops back dramatically. “Oh my gosh, justtalkingabout it with your parents was exhausting. The thought of actually doing it…” She raises both brows.
“Come on,” I coax. “You need some night driving hours, and you’re not going to get better if you don’t keep trying.”
“I know,” she says with a long-suffering sigh. “I understand that. But—gah—do we have to?”
I give her a firm nod. “Yeah, I think we should.”
“Fine.” She closes the refrigerator door. “But if I stall out in an intersection and someone crashes into us, ruining your truck forever, do not blame me.”
