It's twenty minutes on the death bike. Riding on the streets isn't quite as terrifying as racing over the freeway, but it's still plenty scary.
After parking on a side street in Venice Beach, Miles leads me to an out-of-the-way restaurant. It's a repurposed house, blue with white shutters and wide windows.
Miles opens the door for me. He pulls out my chair for me. Like he's a perfect gentleman. Like we're on a real date.
It's a tiny table. A little wood laminate thing with barely enough room for two plates and two glasses. I sit on the edge of my chair, my legs crossed. Miles leans back in his chair, his knees wide open.
His eyes connect with mine. "Should we do the usual first date conversation?"
"Is this a first date?"
He shakes his head. "It's not a date. We're friends."
"But it is our first time out together."
He raises his eyebrow like he's challenging me. "Okay. Let's try it. What do you do?"
"I go to UCLA, premed. I work as an ER scribe from six to ten Monday through Friday. It's a lot of grunt work but it's great experience. And you?"
"I went to Stanford. Poli-sci."
"That right?"
He smirks. "You don't believe I went to Stanford?"
Somehow, I do believe it. Miles is handsome and charismatic. I can see him just about anywhere.
"And now?" I ask.
"I work in the entertainment industry."
"Is that the line you normally use?"
He shrugs. "Most women either know who I am or they don't care."
"Are you that famous?"
"Depends on how recently we dropped a music video, how well it's doing. We have a handful of diehard fans but we're not famous enough that everybody knows our names. It's been different since In Pieces. More people stop me on the street. It was our first hit. Our only top 100 song so far."
"Have you made a lot of money?" I ask.
He laughs. "I like that you asked that. Most people would think it's impolite."
I copy his effortlessly cool shrug.
He smiles. "Good amount. We're poised to make a great amount. But we're not there yet." His eyes go to the window. "Money isn't an issue for me. I inherited a lot. I could quit the band tomorrow, never work again, and still be okay."
"That is a lot."
He nods. "It's a shitty way to become a millionaire."
I clear my throat. I don't want the conversation to get heavy. Talking about loss — that will hurt too much. Right, I feel good. Like it's possible to be happy. I haven't felt that way since before Rosie died.
"Where are you from?" he asks.
Back to a light topic. Perfect. "Orange County."
"My uncle lived in Irvine for a while. It's not a terrible. A little—"