We order fondue because why not? We’ve been here two hours already and have barely made any progress. I’m sleepy and headachy, and I’m pretty sure Cheesy Nuggets wants us to tip her out so she can go home. In fact, a different waitress brings us our fondue. Her nametag reads, “Golden Moldies.”

“What does that mean?” Bree asks, pointing to her tag.

“Your Gorgonzolas, your Camemberts, your Stiltons and Roqueforts. All cheese is basically mold, right? My favorite deliberate moldy cheeses are available on a platter,” she replies, somewhat robotically.

“Should we get some?” Bree asks.

“I think we’d better save those for next time,” I answer gently. “And I want to apologize, because I think I’ve been putting you on the spot too much. How about I go through some profiles on my own, play around with the other filters, and I’ll send you a list of five later tonight for you to check out. Would that be cool? I won’t contact any of them without your approval.”

“Do it. Yes. This is exhausting.”

We ask for the check and while we’re waiting, Bree leans in. “Can I ask about your background?” she asks.

Seriously? What is this obsession with my race today?

“Where do I come from, you mean?” I ask guardedly.

“No, I was wondering if you’re married, what your parents are like, anything you want to share. We’ve talked so much about me—I want to hear your story.”

“Oh, okay.” My shoulders ease back down. “I’ve never been married, and my parents are a couple of save-the-world types who met in the Philippines, where my dad grew up. My mom was there with the Peace Corps, volunteering to rebuild houses after Typhoon Herming, and they fell in love. Nine months later, ta-da,” I say, pointing to myself.

“Aww, you got to be their new project.”

“More like I got folded into the old one. They dragged me from one natural disaster to another until I was ten and my nana put a stop to it.”

Her exact words were: This is no way for a child to live.

“She got them to settle down?”

I swallow a mouthful of my wine. “Oh, no. They wanted to keep traveling.” I shrug. “Which I get. It’s part of their DNA. I mean, they coined the term ‘voluntourists’ for what they do. So Nana and I rented a little one-bedroom place in Santa Monica by the beach.”

If I close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears, I swear I can hear the ocean calling me back.

“That must’ve been an adjustment,” Bree remarks. “To go from being free and, like, traveling the world, to being stuck in one place with Grandma?”