Caddie answered him by leaning over and kissing him. After a moment, his arms went around her and he kissed her back. But only for a minute, and without aggression. Then he pulled back.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” he asked her.

“I’d like that,” she answered.

Brian opened the glove compartment and rooted through the contents. He pulled out a pen and a piece of paper, which he handed to Caddie.

“What is this?” Caddie asked, looking at the paper. “A speeding ticket?”

Brian grinned. “Fifty-five in a forty-five zone,” he said. “Sorry, officer.”

Caddie laughed, writing her number on the ticket and handing it back to Brian.

This time, when she opened the door, he let her go. She stood and watched him as he turned the car around. He blew her a kiss as he drove away.

She walked to the front door not quite sure how she felt. She liked Brian. But she wasn’t sure how he felt about her. His kiss had been nice, but she was used to guys wanting more than nice. Maybe, she thought, Brian had sensed that she was younger than she was pretending to be. Maybe he knew she was a phony. Before she’d reached the front steps, she’d already decided that she wouldn’t hear from him again.

Inside, the house was dark. She fumbled for the light switch, found it, and flicked the hall light on. Then she looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. Her father was probably in bed.

She went to the kitchen and saw that the sink was piled with dirty pots. Open jars and half a stick of butter—now softened and ever so slowly forming a thick puddle—littered the countertop. She smelled the sharp tang of pasta sauce.

Then she remembered her dinner date with her father. She’d forgotten all about it. Surveying the mess he’d made of the kitchen, it occurred to her that he’d gone to a lot of trouble. When she saw the dining room table, still set as if any moment someone would sit down at it and enjoy the dinner that was waiting, she felt a pang of remorse.

Almost instantly, she banished it. So she’d forgotten about dinner. Her father had forgotten all about her the night before. Why should she be any different? Besides, she told herself, examining the contents of the serving bowls, it was only pasta. Anyone could make pasta. It wasn’t as if her father had done that much. Her mind flashed on the number of dishes in the kitchen, but that, too, she elected to ignore. It was only pasta. And the sauce came out of a jar, she told herself.