“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to place an order for a pizza we make, or you’ll need to step aside and let this gentleman go.”

I turn around. The big guy invading my space says, “No worries, man. Take your time.” He sounds sincere, but the line threads through the door and along the front window, so I study a menu hanging overhead and settle on one white pie with parsley and a regular pie, half cheese, half sausage and olive. I decline the girl’s attempt to upsell me garlic knots and drinks.

Half an hour passes before the cook calls my name, so there’s no escape when Ben Walters targets me for small talk. He seems to think I care about what went down at the last homeowners’ association meeting, and about how he, as treasurer, proposed a revised landscaping budget that does not include Fraser firs.

When he finally takes a breath, I jump in. “Hey, quick heads-up. Jonah has a houseguest with volume control issues. If you guys get a noise complaint from our neighbors, just know that I’m already on it. Apologies in advance.”

“You talking about Nick?” Ben asks.

I unclench my jaw to say, “Yeah. Am I too late?”

“Nah,” he says. “Good kid. Met him at the market with Elizabeth the other day. He doesn’t seem like trouble.”

“It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” I say.

“Quiet or noisy, which is it?” Ben belly laughs and smacks my arm. “Don’t worry about it. Your stick-up-their-ass neighbors could use a little shake-up, frankly.” With that, Ben returns to his favorite subject: arborist fees. Only when the kitchen calls my name do I excuse myself to ask for extra Parmesan and red pepper flakes, fleeing with greasy boxes and insight into evergreen growth. By the time I pull into the driveway at home, a full hour has passed. Jonah’s truck isn’t on the street.

I enter the house unnoticed. The Beatles are blaring, so Elizabeth and Nick can’t hear me over “Norwegian Wood.” They don’t know to jump or squeal or separate themselves. They’re tangled up in each other, literally waltzing around the living room. She’s holding eye contact with Nick, who’s bobbing his head to the music’s tempo, going, “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-now-twirl-two-three . . .”

They get jumbled, lose count, and laugh their heads off. I would slow clap if I wasn’t hand-delivering their dinner. Instead, I clear my throat and make a joke. “Well, well. I run out for pizza and look what happens.”

Nick, still laughing, offers to help me with the boxes.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

“Elizabeth was just teaching me how to dance. I’m not very good.”

“No,” I agree. “Not very.”

Elizabeth adjusts the stereo volume and catches her breath but doesn’t look my way.