“Why’d you pick Chicago when you moved?” He opens a drawer, then another one, clearly looking for something. “Silverware?”
I nod toward a third drawer, which he opens, pulling out three large spoons.
“I always wanted to live here,” I admit. “I’ve never really lived on my own.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “I went from my grandparents’ farmhouse to my college dorm to John’s house in Colorado.”
“His name is John?”
“Yeah, why?”
He inhales a sharp breath. “Oh, just trying to get a picture of the guy.”
“Think Bill Pullman fromIndependence Daymixed with a used car salesman and you’ll be close.”
He laughs, and I find I like the ease of the conversation.
I shake my head, thinking about things. “It’s a little more intimidating than I expected.”
“It’s a lot,” he says. “I get it.”
And somehow, I think he really does.
“I remember how it felt to start over,” he says. “It felt... oddly unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. Like ‘I should know how to do this’ but also, I had no clue.”
He pops open the last lid. “Maybe that’s part of it. Like, I feel like I might be able to help you acclimate a little easier having been through it myself.”
It strikes me then that even though we are very different, Miles might really make a decent friend.
Which is why I shake the heaviness away and force myself to lighten the mood. “Okay then, let’s hear it. Who do you and Minnie think I should go out with? And where is he taking me?”
“We’ll get to that. But first, let’s eat.”
“Oh, they labeled everything,” I say, noticing that Miles has left each labeled lid near the dish, arranging everything neatly as if we’re at a potluck.
“I asked them to,” he says. “I figured you’d want to know what to order next time, if you like it.”
The thoughtfulness is like a pinprick to my heart. It’s unexpected, and it catches me off guard.
When I don’t respond, he looks up. “What?” He frowns.
“Nothing, it’s just... you’re being really nice.”
He laughs. “It’s concerning that this surprises you.”
“Maybe I’m just not used to it.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, but I have to look away. Because it’s another admission I didn’t mean to make. And one that tells him a little more about me than I want it to.
He picks up a plate and hands it to me. “After you.”
I load up a plate—naan, samosa, bhel puri, keema matar, along with a small bowl of something called dal—like lentil soup, maybe?—and we sit down on the floor in the living room, food on the coffee table, laptop between us.
“I can’t believe you’ve been texting my daughter about my love life,” I say, my mouth full of naan.
“She’s hilarious,” he says. “And she loves you like crazy.”
