Steph suggested we go to the In-N-Out by the freeway. She led me to a blue Toyota truck that looked like it was from the 1980s, parked in the employee lot beyond the pallets of rocks. On the doors I saw the faded outlines of letters that had been peeled off; they spelled NICHOLS LANDSCAPING.

Steph got in and reached across the cab to push up the passenger side lock. I climbed in, and the hot vinyl seat burned against my thighs. “Ow,” I said, and scooted to the edge.

“Here, you can sit on this,” Steph said. She pulled out a spare Greenbrae Garden Center apron from behind her seat.

“Thanks,” I said, and tucked it beneath my legs.

She started the engine, and I looked for the button to roll down the window, only to realize the truck was old enough to have a hand crank. I turned it, squeaking, to let in the still, hot air.

“The sign that used to be on the car door—Nichols Landscaping,” I said. “Does your family have a landscaping business? Is that how you got into . . .” I gestured at the garden center as she drove us out of the employee parking lot.

“Sort of. This was my dad’s truck. He had a landscaping business, but he died when I was twelve.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly.

She shook her head. “You didn’t know. My aunt Christy tried to keep the business running for a while but it didn’t work out. She gave me the truck when I turned sixteen. It was already old then, but it still runs.” She rapped her knuckles on the tan plastic dashboard. “Hopefully for a while longer, anyway.” She turned left onto Sir Francis Drake and nodded toward the shopping center. “So were you really across the street before you came in?”

She sounded as if she thought I was lying—that I’d made that up as an excuse to see her. And she’d asked me to lunch anyway. “Yes, I was really across the street,” I said, pretending to sound indignant. “I went to buy some brushes at the art supply store.” I now remembered my iced chai, probably totally melted in Joan’s car.

“For your grandma?”

“No, for me.”

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“I don’t. Not like Joan anyway. I painted with her when I was a kid, but I haven’t really painted anything in a long time.”

“What made you want to paint now?”

I didn’t know how to explain it to myself, much less to Steph. It was more like an instinct than any conscious desire. “I guess . . . why not try something new?” I was looking at her and she glanced sideways at me for a second, and when our eyes met, I wondered if what I’d said sounded suggestive.

She smiled slightly. “Why not?” she echoed.

“What makes you want to write a song?” I asked.