“So, I’m thinking, we came all this way, right,” Miles continues reasonably. “And I’ve had a look at the menu, and I think it’s worth staying, if only for the free meal. Tonight’s special is cochinita pibil, which is slow-roasted pork wrapped in a banana leaf . . .”

“I know you didn’t just tell me what to order,” I remark.

“Ha. Sorry.”

“It sounds delicious. That’s why I’m pissed.”

He chuckles. It’s nice to argue with him again. This is what passes for normal in my life these days: arguing with Miles. It gives me the strength to go back out there.

“Are we doing this?” he asks.

I nod, before remembering that he can’t see me. “Yes. Okay.”

Back at their alcove booth, my parents stand to greet me. Mom’s bright-eyed in a polyester-velvet jumpsuit, a pleather fanny pack covered in teeny tiny rhinestones serving as a belt. Dad wears a cashmere hoodie and hemp drawstring pants. I assume both ensembles were organically sourced or at the very least Jaden Smith–approved. He commented once on their Instagram, years ago, and they still bring it up as though they’re old friends.

“Did you see who was behind you?” Mom asks, pecking each of my cheeks with a kiss. She smells like incense and sage.

I roll my eyes, vindicated.

“Only the owner of Food for Thought Media,” Dad pipes up, and squeezes my arm. “We need a self-self with him before we go.”

(Yes, that’s what my parents call selfies of more than one person.)

“A top-shelf self-self,” Miles replies.

My lips quirk and I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s not exactly easy.

“You look lovely,” Mom says, pressing my hand to her cheek.

“We’re a bit crunched for time, so we ordered for you,” Dad says. “Oooh, and here it comes now.”

“One vegetarian medley, two cochinita pibils,” the waiter declares, placing the vegetarian dish in front of me.

I have never been vegetarian.

“Seriously?” Miles groans.

“It’s our cheat day,” Mom explains. “But I’m betting you don’t get nearly enough vegetables in your diet.”

“Ah,” is all I can say.

“Seriously?” Miles repeats. His commentary is a salve against their hypocrisy, but it’s not exactly helping. I can say “Ah,” all day long without his assistance.

Perhaps sensing this, he changes tack. “I’d hate to see you guys go without veggies! And wouldn’t you know I spend most of my time at a vegan café, so no need to worry. Let me just scoop a bit of yours on my plate. Since you have two.”

I repeat his words verbatim and slightly robotically. Mom and Dad tilt their heads but don’t stop me from snatching a portion of their meat.

“He’s getting up,” Mom hisses, bumping Dad with her elbow.

“Zoey, stop him,” Dad urges, nodding at me.

“Stop who?”