“What are Frankenfries?”

“It’s a chain, so each location has its own version. At this one, it’s french fries, topped with macaroni and cheese”— he’s layering his hands now, TAKE-GIVE-TAKE— “then they put gravy, then a layer of breadcrumbs and it goes under the grill. Before you get it, they put a hotdog frank into it like a torpedo. It looks like dog food. We go there most Friday nights after we close up.” He means his tattoo buddies. Scrolling through his photo album he says absent-mindedly, “I need to look up if there’s one near the new studio.”

He shows me a photo of a hideous pile of food. His friends all crowding over it, pretending they puked it up. Tough guys with piercings and tough girls with presence. “See?” He uses two fingers to zoom the photo. “Yummy dog food.” One of the girls is looking at the camera, and the silly boy holding it. The look in her eye reads loud and clear. He’s divine.

I mean it when I say: “How disgusting.”

“When you need to eat your feelings, it’s the only thing that’ll do.”

“Your feelings must have been pretty gross and mixed up.”

“Yeah. You get it.” Sketch, sketch. “Anyway, that was my sad night. I came back late, imagining myself alone in the world. Then I found your care package and I remembered that there’s nice people everywhere.”

You may have noted that I only gave him one towel.

“I probably should have mentioned this, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring guests on-site. During the day when they’re signed in at the office … that might be okay if a friend wants to visit you. But I need to know every single person on-site. In the event of an emergency.”

“Who would I bring to a retirement villa?”

I can’t bring myself to say it. Don’t bring any of those people from the photo here. I’ve cracked a hole in the wall of my little world, and it’s only big enough for you to squeeze through. Don’t make me hear a woman’s laugh through our wall.

His eyes flash to my face, tortoiseshell vivid. “Ohhh, I get what you’re saying. Not with our thin walls. I wouldn’t traumatize you like that.” He resumes work on his cardigan artwork. He thinks I’m just a kid.

I defend myself like a kid would. “I wouldn’t be traumatized.”

My brain guesses at what I might hear in the dark. A mattress squeaking, the bed headboard nudging rhythmically against the wall. A girl gasping from uncontainable pleasure, the kind you’d feel from his body, his touch, but mostly the intensity of being his sole focus. I imagine his hair curtaining around her face, pooling like black oil on the pillow as he dips down for a kiss.

What would a filterless person like Teddy say in the moment? How carried away would he get, how would his imagination be sparked? He’d apply all that charm in just the right way. I think Teddy would laugh a lot in bed.

And all this would happen on my cloud-print sheets.

I manage to joke, “Okay, maybe I would be traumatized.” I close my mouth to contain the pressure building inside me. There will be zero girls experiencing that here, or I swear I don’t know what I’ll do—

“But since Melanie tells me you’re about to start online dating, maybe you could do me the same courtesy.” He is detailing buttons onto the cardigan sketch and doesn’t look up. “I’m easily traumatized myself.”

“I really don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” I gesture to myself with my thumb.

He starts guessing at what I mean. “Your … cardigan won’t come off. There’s another cardigan under that cardigan, just hundreds of them like a box of tissues. It’s a chastity cardigan. An enchanted cardigan.”

On the page, he dusts a few blue-ink sparkles around the shoulders and hemline. He sees shapes when he looks at me?

His teasing hasn’t riled up my hedgehog prickles like I thought they would. I must be getting used to him. I take my breakfast muffin out of my bag and break it in half. It is almost tearfully received. We sit and eat, and I think about this wafer-thin wall between our cottages.

“Tonight, when I’m in bed,” I start, and it changes him. He’s gone from sleepy-yawns to glittering, narrowed eyes. The flickering candlelight is back in them now. “And when you’re in bed”— (oh boy, his eyes are even worse now)— “we should say something out loud. To see if the other can hear. Not for any weird reason.”

“I’m interested in weird stuff, big-time.” He’s checking the time on his phone. His lock screen is a photograph of a neon sign that reads: ALWAYS AND FOREVER. He clicks it away to blackness and hands me his empty mug. “Thanks so much. Better go.”

“Have a good day.” I feel a little guilty because I know what sort of first days the Parloni boys have.

“I might come down for a visit later, if I get a lunch break.” He’s gathering up his things now. He blows out a breath like he’s nervous. Maybe his survival instincts are kicking in. “Any last hints or tips for me?” He’s using the same velvety voice he probably used on the veterinary receptionist last night.

“The Parlonis usually have a siesta. If you make it until then, you can have lunch. Come and visit us at the office.”

“If I make it? Of course I will.” He laughs like I’ve made a joke. “I’ll have you to look forward to. Can’t wait.”

I’m almost down the path to the office when I realize I can’t wait, either, and therefore I’m possibly in big trouble.

CHAPTER EIGHT

All morning, I keep trying to guess when the Parloni sisters might take their siesta. Perhaps tormenting Teddy on his first day at work has given them an energy boost and he won’t come down to visit at all. I tell myself that I’m glad to have a little peace and quiet.

Mrs. Petersham called the office earlier and asked us to go to the store for some new magazines. “I am well qualified for this,” Melanie assured me, grabbing a fist of petty cash. “Choosing magazines is a strength I should have put on my résumé. I’ll be back.” Eventually?

I’m catching up on my to-do list. It only took two clicks off the PDC home page to find the new site manager of Providence. Rose Prescott, Junior Management Associate, is a blue-eyed blonde with a strong stare. She would get picked first for team sports at school. She would blast a hockey puck into your face. There is absolutely no similarity to Teddy at all, from her coloring to her fierce aura.

“Teddy would be smiling properly,” I say out loud to the empty room. The photographer would have one hell of a time just getting a shot of him where he wasn’t laughing, blinking, yawning, or moving. I’d love to see his passport. I print Rose’s corporate profile out and add it to my PDC folder.

The next thing on my list, I’ve been procrastinating on.

Dad answers the phone on the second ring. “Reverend Midona.” Put it this way: If God calls, Dad can’t be accused of not taking this seriously.

“Hi, it’s Ruthie.”

He presses the phone to his chest and I hear him calling: “Abigail. Abigail.” This goes on for a while and I just sit there waiting. “She’s coming from the garden.” He goes to lay down the receiver.

I rush out, “How are things with you?” Put a tick in the dutiful daughter column.

“Fine, busy, fine.”

“I hope you haven’t gotten that flu that’s been going around.” I completely make that up. I wouldn’t have a clue what germs are filling up his church, but desperate times call for desperate conversation topics.

“I don’t have the flu,” Dad says, and now we both just sit, phones to our ears.

I break first. “Did Mom tell you that I’m the manager here at Providence while Sylvia is on her cruise?” As soon as I hear the hopeful boast in my voice, it feels like an error. This feels like that moment when you’ve set up a joke perfectly, and the other person has a killer punch line.

He delivers it. “I hope you’re remembering to lock the office. Here’s your mother.”

“Okay then. Bye.” I hold the receiver away to exhale. I’m shaky and tears are threatening. I’m careful now. Aren’t I?

I open my checklist app to make sure I performed my lockup routine properly last night. One item— the recreation center door— is unticked. Did I actually do that? I know I was there, but I think I got distracted. I close my eyes now and visualize myself, out there on the path, the door handle cold under my palm. But my ears were listening for faraway motorbikes.

Mom interrupts my miniature meltdown. “My little Ruthie Maree. You know, I was just thinking about you. How are you?”

Even though I called her, I’m irrationally annoyed. I need to go. “Good, thanks, Mom. How are you?” I sound too brisk. “Want to do speakerphone?” No one can say I don’t try.

“Your father has disappeared.” She’s vaguely amazed. “I wonder where he went.”