Renata is struggling to cut into the firm cheddar. “Eight weeks is ridiculous. Find your person today.” The frailty of her arm stretched between us does give me a moment of pause.

To ignore her advice is fairly arrogant, given how long she’s been alive. I’m just considering whether an all-in approach is the better way forward when she loses her temper and says: “For God’s sake, someone with bone density cut this cheese for me. Now, what about the Parloni Method.” (We all brace ourselves.) “Go down to the bar and find someone whose teeth don’t repulse you. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter. Go home, take all your clothes off, roll around together. It’s how we did things back in the day.”

She holds out a regal hand until Teddy places a preloaded cracker in it. “I bet Panda Bear has rolled around in a fair few beds.”

“That’s sexual harassment,” I remind her. “He’s your employee.”

Teddy just shrugs. “She can’t harass me with the truth.” Is he expecting me to be scandalized? I already knew that. There’s no way a guy with this face and nuclear charm hasn’t been in every kind of bed, from sleeping bag to four-poster.

I don’t let myself look away. If I do, he’ll think I’m an inexperienced little kid. Right now, in this light, his eyes are neither brown nor green. What’s this in-between color called?

“But not lately,” he promises me. “I don’t roll around in beds anymore.”

“I’ll translate that for ya.” Renata’s gaze slides sideways to me and she tips all her wine into her mouth. Gulp. “He wants to roll around in your bed, Ruthie. Christ, does that sincere tone actually work out for you, Ted?”

Into the walkie-talkie, Teddy replies: “10–6, stand by on that, over.”

I know why they’re all laughing now. It’s funny because my bed is not very roll-worthy. I laugh, too, to show I’m a good sport, but I think I’m blushing just the same. Would he even fit in my bed? Who am I kidding. He’d fit himself in anywhere.

Melanie takes me through my worksheet. She’s put a lot of effort into it. When the air is getting chilly and the first mosquito makes its descent, Melanie turns to me as she gathers up her things. “I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor in return. You can say no.”

I nod as I help Renata into her jacket. “Go ahead.”

“With my contract ending in December, it’s made me realize I want to find my dream job. I’ve been temping for so long, I think I’ve just confused myself about what I enjoy. Can you kinda do a Midona Method on me?”

My heart squeezes at the vulnerability in her voice. She has this much faith in me? And she’s scared I’m about to say no? I think I’d walk through traffic for Melanie Sasaki.

“I only wish you’d asked me earlier, so I could have been as prepared as you were. How about this. You complete this worksheet, too, but for jobs. Turn-ons— what do you enjoy? Turnoffs— what will you never do? I’d love to help you find your dream job, Mel.”

My eyes settle on the tortoise rehabilitation zone in my courtyard. Six-year-old me would be horrified to hear that administration is my “dream job.” Little Kid Ruthie would have marched right into Teddy’s living room and snatched up that Reptiles for Dummies book.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I think I’m going to host a monthly cheese party, here at Providence,” I say to Teddy when my guests are gone and I’m carrying the almost-empty platter inside. “Did you know that I run a full seasonal activity program?”

His tone is dry as he lies on my couch. “Yes, Ms. Midona, I did know that.” I drop a flyer down on his face anyway.

“The Christmas party here really goes off. I’m not even kidding. We invite residents from Bakersfield Retirement Home and I drive a minibus of really old men up here to even out the numbers. I have to do a second trip back in the morning. A walk of shame when you’re over eighty is really, really slow.”

I’ve got the oven preheating. Once I start filling the bath, my routine will be perfectly unaltered. Nothing unusual around here, except for the six-four real estate heir lying flat on my couch with his belt undone. His gigantic sneakers are kicked off like he lives here.

“So do you like the idea of a cheese party? I think the residents will love it.”

“Sure. Everyone loves cheese.” He flips through the channels. There’s no smile on his mouth.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Theodore.” I sit on the end of the couch near his black-socked feet. I’ve affixed the Method worksheet onto a clipboard. “Mel’s put a blank space here marked Name. Like she’s got other clients and doesn’t want to mix up the paperwork. Well, who am I to disobey a form.” I write in RUTHIE MAREE MIDONA. “I have to write a list. I can do that.”

“I just like it best when it’s only you and me.” He knows there’s only room for one guy on this couch. “I’ve never had a place where the same thing happens every day. This is it.”

“Providence is a little like that.”

“No, I mean here. With you, the oven timer, and the pipes filling your bath. When I was growing up”— here, he breaks off, and this seems hard— “I usually didn’t know where I was spending the night. Mom and Dad didn’t really work out a custody arrangement, it was pretty ad hoc. Just whoever lost the coin toss got me.”

“I wouldn’t have coped with that.”

“I barely did.” He pulls himself up to nestle his shoulders into the throw pillows. I turn and do the same, and my legs fit between his. “I know I come off pretty flaky. I’ve just lived like this a long time. And I want this to last awhile longer.”

We’re like two people lying together in a bathtub. It feels like we’ve sat like this for years. He pulls the elastic from his hair and the sumptuous black coil sits on his shoulder like a pet. He looks like a man, muscled and animal. He says to the clipboard, “I won’t like your list.”

“Because the list won’t be about you?” The way he blinks tells me yes. “Teddy, you are skating very close to gorgeous narcissist territory.”

I tap the page with my pen. I’m going to ignore the sensation of his eyes on me and the way his energy tugs like a hand on my sleeve, asking me to look up.

“Gorgeous?”

“Your Honor, I rest my case.” His legs are snuggling closer around mine. I’m trying hard to not smile. “Choose something to watch, please. You’re driving me nuts changing that channel.”

“Put on Heaven Sent. I know you have it, I can hear it through the wall.” He begins singing part of the theme song: “ ‘Whenever you’re alone, I call your name, whenever you’re lost, you know you’ll get home— ’ ”

Is he teasing? Blood makes my face hot. “Did you actually press your ear on the wall? I kept the volume so low I had to put subtitles on.”

He nods and continues singing in a lovely voice (of course he can flippin’ sing, what is he even bad at?). “ ‘Life’s got ups and downs, we play that game, but when will you learn?’ ”

Even me, with my heart of stone, cannot resist singing the last line with him. “ ‘When will you learn, you’re heaven sent?’ ” We even harmonize. I grin at him. “You think I’m a huge loser, right?” Please just tell me you do. Pop this helium feeling.

“If you’re a loser, then I am too. I fucking love that show. Put on the one where Francine goes bra shopping.” He keeps humming the theme song, tapping his toe against my hip. I look at the blank worksheet. I feel like I’m not going to like anything I write, either. If I don’t get ahold of myself, it could easily look like this:

Turn-ons

? Tall

? Tattoos

? Those magic eyes

? That insanely good hair

? Quick smile/perfect teeth

? Talented hands that give and take

Turnoffs

? Anyone who isn’t him

I’d better use a pencil and an eraser.

I haven’t answered him. “I’m three seasons behind that episode. I always watch them in order. And I wouldn’t let you watch that one anyway, you perv. Francine’s supposed to be in high school.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I was in high school, too, when it aired. My sisters and I never missed an episode. That was one thing I could count on in my week. So where are we up to? We wouldn’t want to mess up the special Heaven Sent system.”

(Little does he know that, thanks to the worldwide rewatch hosted by my forum, there literally is a special system.)

“I only do an annual viewing, and if I watch them in order, it makes it more satisfying. The bigger story arcs build up so well.”

“I’m sure, Tidy Girl.” He grins to himself. “Only an annual viewing. Such restraint. Is this what you want to do with your dream man? Snuggling up, watching a churchy TV show? Does it remind you of home?”

We’re interlocking our legs like this is normal. Sort of snuggling, now that he mentions it. The feel of another person, resting against me, warm and heavy? This is genuine heaven. “This was what I counted on each week, too. This routine of mine? It goes way back.”