Funny Story(34)

“Better.” He pushes the lock down, then rounds the truck and gets in.

“Tom’s Food Market?” I say.

“Better,” he repeats.

“Oh, I know!” I cry. “Meijer.”

He looks over, the engine starting with a sputtering cough. “Do me a favor,” he says lightly, “and unlock your door.”

“Why?”

“So I can push you out as I peel out of this parking lot,” he says.

“You would never,” I say.

“I would never,” he admits, and pulls onto the road. He turns us away from town and the water, toward the countryside.

His heartbreak playlist is still in full effect.

Or maybe he’s just put it back on to amuse me, because he does seem a little more smirky than usual.

The traffic thins as we drive inland, away from the quaint downtown and the cotton-candy-colored Victorian-and Colonial Revival–style resorts that line the beach.

It’s easy to forget how secluded Waning Bay really is, when you’re inside of it, but within minutes, we’re winding into gloriously sunlit farmland.

Then, out of nowhere, we’re pulling to the side of the road. Through the dusty windshield, I spot a green-painted farm stand on the shoulder, behind which two older ladies in work pants, floral tank tops, and matching visors are hawking asparagus.

“So to be clear,” I say, “when you said shopping, you meant for asparagus.”

Miles gives me a mildly offended look. “This,” he says, “is just phase one.”

I hop out, dirt kicking up under my sandals, and follow him to the stand.

“Well, hello there!” one of the ladies calls. “Back already?”

“Of course,” Miles says. “Barb, Lenore, this is my friend Daphne Vincent. Daphne, this is Barb Satō and Lenore Pappas.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Daphne’s newish to town,” Miles goes on, “and she’s never had your asparagus before.”

“Is that so?” The smaller of the two women, Barb, perks up. She starts rustling through the crates. “Let me find you the best of the best.”

“I’m sure there’s no bad stalk to be had,” I say.

“No, no, of course not,” the other woman, a head taller than the first, says, “but Barb does have a knack for picking the best, and we want our first-timers to come back, so let her work her magic.”

“I appreciate it,” I say.

Lenore leans across the table. “How’ve you been holding up, honey?”

“Good,” Miles says. “I’m good.”

She squeezes his forearm. “You’re a good boy, and you deserve to be happy. Don’t you forget that.”

“These are the ones for you.” Barb lifts a bundle of asparagus that must contain at least twenty-seven stalks.

“Oh, yeah, those look good,” Miles agrees, holding open the tote bag he brought from the truck. She drops the asparagus in, and he slides his wallet from his pocket.

“No, no, no,” Barb says. “Your money’s no good here.”

He shoves the ten in his hand into their tip jar to much protestation. “It would be a crime not to pay for this.”

“Theft, technically,” I put in.

“You take care of our boy,” Lenore tells me sternly, but with a wink. “He’s one of the good ones.”

“I’ve been picking up on that,” I say.

They coo and fawn over him as we wave our farewells and trek back to the dirt-smeared truck, my cheeks aching from subconsciously matching their sunny smiles. As soon as we’re in the car, and out of earshot, I drop my voice to a murmur. “You weren’t kidding about that beard’s effect on our honored elders.”

He laughs. “No, they hate the beard. They just like me because I spend a fuck-ton on their asparagus. And their corn, later in the season.”

A guffaw rises out of me as we glide back onto the road. “Miles, I’m pretty sure they would’ve given you their entire surplus, and everything in the tip jar. How much corn can one man possibly eat to earn that kind of adoration?”

“It’s not one man,” he says.

“Damn,” I say. “A modern Walt Whitman.”

“No, I mean, we source from them.”

“We?” I ask.

“Cherry Hill,” he says. At my blank response, his eyes dart to the road, then to my face and back a couple more times. “I’m their buyer.”

“What does that mean,” I say.

“It means our chef, Martín, makes a few different menus every season, and I get the best stuff I can find for him. So I go to the butcher, and the farm stands, and the olive oil store, and the cheesemonger—”

“Cheesemonger!” I say. “You have a cheesemonger on speed dial?”

“Since it’s not 1998,” he says, “no, I don’t have her on speed dial. But we text whenever she’s got something special in.”

“Wow,” I say. “Who knew I was moving in with the most well-connected man this side of Lake Michigan?”

“Probably everyone that I’m connected to,” he replies. “So, like, half of Waning Bay?”