Kate and Bluto hadn’t spoken in years. Centuries, it seemed like. Then out of the blue, he’d breezed into town and given her a call that spring morning, asking if she had time for a “sundae on Sunday.” This was the kind of shtick that passed for wit when they were kids, Bluto having also been, as he liked to say, a cunning linguist. The arrival of the call that particular Friday seemed inevitable to Kate somehow. She was at an impasse, having gone nowhere professionally or romantically, and she’d been waiting for some kind of spiritual release, some fast-moving freight train out of nowhere to ram her out of limbo. She left her sick dog by a bowl of water, and drove out to her local Classic Shakes.

When Kate arrived, it took a while before she spotted him in a Naugahyde booth with a girl—Eurasian, she instantly knew—who looked about fourteen. The child was wearing a pink T-shirt with “Kiss Me I’m Irish” in green glitter. That, and jeans that frayed midthigh. Cutoffs, Kate supposed they were still called. She never wore those anymore. They were sitting at the far end of the diner though the place was practically empty. The girl’s dark, shoulder-length hair was wet and glossy from the shower or the pool.

Kate felt it was low of Bluto to spring his daughter on her like this, having said nothing about her—or his marital status—on the phone. She studied them as she made her approach, passing the chrome soda fountain, the glass dome with its leaning tower of pink donuts. If this kid was fourteen, that would have made Bluto her father at eighteen—the first year of college. That might explain, even excuse, his radio silence. Perhaps there was a wife sitting at home or working two jobs in New York. Or maybe he was now divorced, or widowered . . . was that even a word?

Bluto stood up and gave her a hug that felt both intimate and by-the-book. They’d never even hugged before, she realized, such gawky teenagers were they. His torso felt ribby against her, but his arms were bulky, like he lived half his life in a gym. She tried to recall if he’d always been built like this, a plastic action figure. As they disengaged, his cheek grazed hers. It felt rough. Grown up. She saw the creases on the sides of his eyes when he smiled. Crow’s feet. He looked weathered, and that made him manlier, sexier. How unfair.

She sat down and ordered a decaf. Bluto and his daughter were sharing a plate of fries, which the girl dipped in both ketchup and mayonnaise. Kate froze. She didn’t know anybody else who did that apart from herself.

“See that?” said Bluto, proudly pointing out his girl’s ritual. It seemed likely that he’d trained her. “Uncanny, wouldn’t you say? Plus, your hair, your eyes.”