Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
MILES
Miranda studies the spread of food arranged in warmers along the counter, worry tightening her features. “Do you think everything’s okay? We ordered enough food, right?”
We’d picked up a few catering trays from our favorite local Italian restaurant—nothing fancy, but definitely delicious.
“Of course, everything’s okay,” I reassure her.
“Believe me, my parents do not care. My mom would be perfectly happy with cheap bread and cheese sandwiches. They’re the most low-maintenance people on the planet.
She even offered to bring food herself, but I insisted we were hosting.
Honestly, most times when they visit, they show up with half their fridge. ”
“I know,” Miranda says, still fussing. “But it’s the first time they’re coming here since I moved in, and I don’t know… I just want everything to be great.”
She’s nervous—more than she wants to admit.
“Believe me,” I say, stepping close enough that she meets my eyes, “they’re going to love you. They love everyone. Plus”—I wink—“you’re very easy to love.”
She exhales, though the worry doesn’t entirely leave her posture. “Okay, well… still. I like things done well.”
“And I love that about you,” I tell her. “But trust me. It’s all good.”
As if perfectly timed to test my promise, the doorbell rings, followed immediately by the front door swinging open.
“Hellooo?” my mom calls out in her usual cheerful, singsong voice.
“Come in!” I shout from the kitchen, heading toward the foyer.
My family visits fairly often. We live close enough that popping over is easy, but this is the first time they’ve been here since Miranda moved in. I’m not even a little nervous. I know exactly how this will go.
My mom and dad pull me into matching hugs, squeezing tight, and then Audrey—my little sister—wraps her arms around me too.
“Hey, guys,” I greet them, grinning. I glance over my shoulder toward the kitchen. “This is my new roommate, Miranda.”
“Oh, Miranda!” my mom beams, immediately crossing the room to hug her as if they’ve known each other for years. “We have heard so many wonderful things about you.”
“Oh—well, that’s good to hear,” Miranda says, cheeks flushing the prettiest shade of pink.
Everyone filters inside, and true to form, we start talking all at once. My family doesn’t do quiet. We head to the kitchen, grab plates, and start piling on pasta, salad, and warm bread.
“Everything looks amazing,” Audrey says. “Oh my gosh, I love Italian.”
“Us too,” I say, gesturing between Miranda and me. “Actually, we love just about everything.”
I shoot Miranda a grin, and she nods. “Yep. Eating? We’ve mastered that part. Cooking? Not so much.”
My mom laughs and pats Miranda’s arm. “Well, I can come over any time and show you two a few things.”
“We might take you up on that,” Miranda says. “Because between the two of us, if takeout didn’t exist, we’d probably starve.”
Plates are full, and everyone settles at the table.
Conversation flows easily—about the game, how the season’s going, a couple of recent plays my dad wants to discuss.
Audrey updates us on her classes and dorm shenanigans.
Mom fusses about the process of finding a reputable breeder.
After we lost my childhood dog, a golden retriever named Molly, I’m finally ready to get another one.
Everything runs smoothly. Better than smoothly.
And as I sit there watching my family talk to the woman who has become such an important part of my life, something settles warm and sure in my chest.
Seeing my worlds meet like this… it just feels right.
Of course, my dad brings up Hollywood—he can’t help himself. He’s always been fascinated with everything that goes into making a movie.
“So,” Audrey says, practically glowing with curiosity, “what’s it like working with Annalise Sterling? That must be incredible. How does someone even get a job like that?”
Miranda chuckles softly. “Well… I’ve known Anna since we were kids, so the way I got the job definitely wasn’t traditional. It just kind of happened. I’m very organized, and I started helping her with little things when we were teenagers. It eventually morphed into something full-time.”
“So what is it you do for her, exactly?” my mom asks.
“Pretty much everything,” Miranda replies. “Scheduling, prepping, lining things up for movie shoots, auditions, premieres… arranging clothes, accessories, travel. Basically, if Anna needs it done, I’m the one who handles it.”
I chime in before my dad can explode with excitement. “She organized everything for the Oscars.”
My dad’s eyes light up all over again. “I still can’t believe you got to go to the Oscars. That is just amazing.”
“It is amazing,” I say.
Miranda looks at me, a warm smile on her face. “He talked about his run-ins with celebrities for weeks.”
Audrey laughs. “As he should! We’ve always been a movie-loving household.”
“I’ve heard,” Miranda says with a shy smile.
“Did you grow up loving movies?” my dad asks her. “Being from Los Angeles and all?”
“Um…” She pauses, thinking. “I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it that way. I grew up around actors—especially since I was close with Anna, and her parents are very well-known.”
“Oh yeah,” my dad nods. “They’re Hollywood royalty.”
“Exactly,” Miranda agrees. “So I guess it just never felt like something to be fascinated by. It was always just… part of my life.”
“I see,” my mom says gently. “So tell us about your parents.”
The question lands like a stone. Miranda goes still. Her shoulders tighten, her gaze drops to her plate. For a second, she doesn’t breathe.
“Well… it was just my mom and me,” she says quietly. “And then I started helping Anna when we were teenagers and—” Her voice jumps an octave as she abruptly stands. “Does anyone need a refill? More water? Soda?”
Miranda hurries toward the refrigerator. With her back turned, my parents exchange one of those wordless looks.
“I think we’re good. Thanks, though,” I reply to Miranda.
“Oh!” my mom says brightly, expertly changing the subject. “Audrey, tell them about your roommate debacle.”
“Oh my God, yes,” Audrey says instantly, launching into the story. “Okay, so my roommate—”
Just like that, the conversation shifts. Smoothly. Purposely.
Miranda has her back to us as she fills her glass, her posture stiff, her hands too careful. She’s trying to regulate something—breath or nerves or memories she doesn’t want to surface.
I watch her, feeling that familiar tug in my chest.
She doesn’t want to talk about her past. I should’ve warned my parents not to bring it up, but it completely slipped my mind.
Part of me aches to know the story she keeps locked up tight, the other part knows she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
In an attempt to change the subject, as soon as Miranda sits back down, my mom says, “So I hear Miles is teaching you how to drive.”
Miranda snaps her head toward mine, eyes wide, and laughs. “You didn’t.”
My mom’s eyes dart back and forth between Miranda and me, worried.
“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 stupid because 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 coordinating with 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, just talking about 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.”
“Deal.”