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I exhale. “Mom’s unconventional . She was a wild child when she was young, and people called her a bad seed.” I shrug. “And I guess she passed on her hippie-dippie ways to me.”

“Who calls her that?” he asks.

“My stepmother. She says we’re both hippie-dippie and thinks Mom should stop wearing overalls and I should get new clothes instead of only buying used ones.”

“The fashion industry is terrible for the environment,” he says. “We should all be buying secondhand.”

“Exactly. Noureen also thinks I should work in my dad’s real estate office even though I hate real estate agents, that I should go to a regular university instead of an art college, that I should straighten my hair, and that I should spend more time with my stepsister, probably because she hopes her daughter’s perfection is contagious and fixes me. ”

Miles cringes. “That’s ridiculous. You’re great the way you are. Does your father think these things?”

I look at Miles quickly. Did he mean to call me great ? He’s still leaning back looking in front of him. “Um, I don’t know,” I say. “My relationship with my dad isn’t the best. He doesn’t have my back.” I sigh. “Family is complicated.”

Miles doesn’t say anything.

I take a strawberry from the container. It’s red and juicy and bursting with flavor.

“What are you studying next year?” he asks, taking a strawberry himself.

“Digital arts. But my stepmother thinks I should study accounting or business.”

He chuckles. “I can’t imagine you as an accountant.”

I throw my strawberry stem into a napkin.

“Yeah, no one can. I don’t actually mind numbers—I’ve always been good at math.

But I like art more. Fine arts would be a dream career for me.

I adore sketching and painting, but I know digital art and design is more practical.

I want to be an illustrator or graphic designer, hopefully with my own firm supporting small businesses.

” I tell him about the work I’ve done for Jenn and my mom on their websites and promotional material.

“That’s really cool,” Miles says. “I’ve always admired people with artistic ability. Probably because I have none. Even musicians—there was this girl at my high school who got all these scholarships for violin. Watching her play was mesmerizing.”

I smile knowingly at Miles. Maybe I should track down this violin player for him. “Did you have a thing for her?” I ask teasingly.

He shakes his head. “When she wasn’t playing violin, she was the nastiest bully in the school. She made the mean girls in that movie seem like saints.”

I file away that information. No mean girls, but musicians are good.

“I should get you to do some mock-up sketches of the festival for the proposal,” Miles says. He takes a bite of a soft ginger cookie. “Oh, these are good!”

“Of course they’re good. I’m an excellent picnic packer.”

“They remind me of these chocolate-covered gingerbread cookies my mom used to buy.”

“Yum. And yes, I can absolutely do some mock-up illustrations for the proposal,” I say.

We discuss the visuals for the festival, and if we’ll need a logo yet.

He knows his stuff, and it’s clear that he’s done a fair bit of research on neighborhood festivals on his own.

I’m a little surprised at that since he was so against the festival idea in the first place.

But I’m learning that Miles is a little like me.

When we decide to do something, we never do it halfway.

“This is when it’s the prettiest,” I say, taking a picture of the sky.

The sun is peeking out between the buildings, and the whole sky is a glorious shade of orange.

The CN Tower stands high, watching over the other buildings like a sentinel.

It’s all breathtaking. I turn so I can get a selfie with the sunset behind me.

“Get in the shot,” I say, motioning him to get closer.

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind for a moment. “It’s just a picture,” I say. “C’mon, Miles, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

He finally leans in close to my head, and I snap the shot. He’s smiling in it.

“Can I post to my grid?” I ask.

He nods and tells me his Instagram handle so I can tag him. I post the shot with the caption Glorious sunset picnic with @milesaway.

It is glorious. And actually, so is this night, despite the disastrous start.

It’s weird—seeing Miles like this, all loose and chill, has pretty much squashed my dislike of him.

He doesn’t always say something when I expect him to, and he may have a slight case of resting grumpy face.

But he’s funny, and nice, and really is so much less awkward when he’s comfortable with someone.

I’m starting to think Miles and I will work really well together on this festival project.

And I guess he’s right. I can make friends with just about anyone.

Mom’s doing a Zumba class on YouTube when I get home.

“Oh,” she says, not even pausing her dancing/exercising. “I thought you were at your father’s this weekend. Do you want some leftover chili?”

Hadn’t Mom noticed that I never spend the night at Dad’s anymore?

“Nah, I ate a ton of cheese at the park.” I plop onto the armchair to greet Zuri, who is draped over the back of it.

There’s a big pile of fake flowers on the table.

Mom buys them from thrift stores to practice new designs. “What were you working on here?”

Mom pauses the TV. She’s in leggings and a tank top, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her shoulders.

“Was playing with some hydrangeas. Don’t you think these would be gorgeous as hanging wedding centerpieces?

” She shows me some pictures on her phone of hydrangeas made into large orbs.

She tells me about her vision, and it sounds amazing.

“How’s the festival planning going?” she asks after she puts the exercise class back on and gets into position.

I pull Zuri onto my lap. “It’s going. Miles put together a draft of our proposal, but we couldn’t talk about it tonight because Cara was a no-show. I don’t know what’s going on with her. She only does what Hannah wants lately.”

“Young love,” Mom says as she does this sideways shimmy, mirroring the lady on the TV. “It’s consuming her life.”

“I wasn’t like that with Priya, was I?” I scratch Zuri’s chin while I think about it.

It’s funny—all I could think about a few weeks ago was manifesting a meet-cute and finding a prom date.

But with the problems on the street, and Mom thinking of selling the building, and putting together this festival, plus, of course, finding Miles a match, I’ve barely thought about my own love life lately.

Maybe that’s for the best, though. Seeing Cara lose herself in a relationship makes me think I should stay single for a while.

“It’s a good thing you have Miles,” Mom says. She’s still dancing. “He’s a smart kid.”

I don’t “have” Miles—haven’t we had this conversation already? I change the subject before giving it too much thought. “Hey, do you know Nasrin Kanji? That’s Miles’s mother. She’s Ismaili, like us.”

Mom shakes her head. “I don’t recognize the name.” I tell her where Miles grew up to see if she knows his family, but she’s zoned out, concentrating on the dance instructor’s movements.

This is frustrating. I was fine with pretending that everything’s okay and not telling her that I know about her money problems, but she’s not even listening to me.

Maybe she’s trying to stay extra busy to keep her mind off her problems?

I just wish the fact that she’s thinking about selling the building was out in the open so I could ask her. Should I tell her I know?

“I bumped into Ina Kozlak today,” Mom says suddenly. “She’s going through a rough time.”

“Oh no! What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Sales at Kozlaks’ are down. She can’t compete with the large chains anymore. She may have to close. Did you know Rossi’s has their own brand of pierogies?”

“Ugh. But there’s no way they are as good as Mrs. Kozlak’s.” This sucks. I love Kozlaks’. They have the best European chocolates and cookies. “Maybe the festival will be good for them too.”

“Maybe.” Mom shakes her hips while doing this sweeping motion with her hands, but I can tell that her mind is elsewhere again.

I sigh. This festival has to happen. If not, this Love Street, my Love Street, won’t exist anymore.