I paced the living room at my sister’s house, back and forth, back and forth. She sat on the old plaid couch she’d taken from our mom’s house when she went off to college and never replaced. Watching me pace, she looked like someone at a tennis match.

“Sit down, Miles. You’re wearing a hole in my rug,” she said. “You don’t need to date someone named Mia. Mia, Mina, Miles, too much alike. It’ll get confusing.”

“Don’t kid ...