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“Let’s talk about dessert. I’m thinking Chocolate Hazelnut Cheesecake.”
I offer him a laminated menu, but he won’t accept it. “Don’t change the subject. You need this job. If you get fired, there’s no going back to Safe Harbor. They’ve got a wait list longer than your arm.”
“I’m not going back to Safe Harbor. I’m going to do an amazing job, and Caroline is going to rave about me to all her neighbors, and when the summer’s over I bet she keeps me on. Or I’ll go work for another family in Spring Brook. That’s the plan.”
“What about the father? How’s Ted?”
“What about him?”
“Is he nice?”
“Yes.”
“Is he too nice? Maybe a little handsy?”
“Did you really just use the word handsy?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Sometimes these guys lose sight of boundaries. Or they see the boundary and they don’t care.”
I think back to my swimming lesson from two weeks ago, the night Ted complimented me on my tattoo. I guess he’d put a hand on my shoulder, but it’s not like he grabbed my ass. “He’s not handsy, Russell. He’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Now can we please order dessert?”
This time, he grudgingly accepts a menu. “Which one are we looking at?”
“Chocolate Hazelnut.”
He flips to the back of the menu, to the index listing all the nutritional information. “Fourteen hundred calories? Are you shitting me?”
“And ninety-two grams of sugar.”
“Good lord, Quinn. People must die in this restaurant every week. They must have heart attacks walking out to their cars. There should be medics in the parking lot, waiting to revive them.”
Our waitress sees Russell browsing the desserts. She’s a teenager, smiling and cheerful. “Looks like someone’s thinking cheesecake!”
“Not a chance,” he says. “But my friend’s going to have some. She’s healthy and strong and she has her whole life ahead of her.”
* * *
After dessert Russell insists on driving me back to the Maxwells’, so I won’t have to cross the highway after dark. It’s almost nine thirty when we pull up to the house.
“Thank you for the cheesecake,” I tell him. “I hope you have a great vacation.”
I open the door to the car and Russell stops me. “Listen, are you sure you’re okay?”
“How many times are you going to ask me?”
“Just tell me why you’re shaking.”
Why am I shaking? Because I’m nervous. I’m afraid I’m going to walk up to the cottage and find more drawings on the porch—that’s why I’m shaking. But I’m not about to explain any of this to Russell.
“I just ate fifty grams of saturated fat. My body’s going into shock.”
He looks skeptical. This is the classic sponsor’s dilemma: You need to trust your sponsee, you need to show you believe in them and have absolute faith in their recovery. But when they start acting weird—when they start shivering in cars on hot summer nights—you need to be the bad guy. You need to ask the tough questions.
I open his glove box and it’s still full of dip cards. “You want to test me?”
“No, Mallory. Of course not.”
“You’re obviously worried.”
