They ordered burgers, and then Bluto really got to talking. He spoke of all the years they’d been out of touch, of graduating and falling flat on his face, of the three long years he spent “couch-surfing” in Brooklyn, of making a poor living as a landscaper, of car trouble on the Tappan Zee, of antiquing in historic Rhinebeck with rich widows, of falling serially for essentially the same, interchangeable person—the unappeasable blonde who didn’t care for books or music. He threw around a lot of New York place names, but there was no mention of the girl’s mother. Maybe she was some kind of Thai hooker he was embarrassed about.

The girl kept her eyes fixed on Kate, as if studying the way she bit into her cheeseburger and how she chewed. Kate was careful to deny the girl the pleasure of seeing her double-dip her fries. Every time Kate tried to include her in the conversation, the girl’s eyes flitted down to her food or to Bluto, and her fingers rushed to fiddle with the monogrammed gold necklace around her neck.

Finally Bluto brought her into the conversation. He said her name was Brittany, like the province in France, not the singer. She was fifteen. He said that until he met her, he’d wasted too much time deceiving himself into thinking he’d be happy with a woman when all along what he’d wanted was a girl. He leaned across the table to Kate and whispered—“fire of my loins, a relentless cum machine”—about Brittany, the surly child who, until ten seconds prior, Kate had assumed was his daughter.

Kate stared at Brittany, who was twirling her hair as if nothing unusual had been said, her nonchalant affect gaining a new level of noxiousness. “This is a joke, right?”

Bluto laughed, and swatted the air with his hand. He had met the girl on the Internet, where he’d posed as a college freshman named Paul. At their first rendezvous, he said, she hadn’t been shocked to find a thirty-two-year-old man waiting for her at the Starbucks; she told him she just knew he’d be “middle-aged.” He took her on a plane and brought her out West to celebrate their one-month anniversary.

“Her parents think she’s on a camping trip with the Girl Scouts.” He smiled. “I know, I know, it’s not exactly legal, but I thought my secret would be safe with you.”

Kate felt like slugging him and fleeing the place, but she didn’t want to make a scene. She played with her lettuce, while her insides grew queasy. When it came time for dessert, all three ordered hot fudge sundaes, but when they arrived, Kate couldn’t touch hers. Bluto gave the girl his maraschino cherry, which sent her into nauseating spasms of gratitude. It was the only time Kate would see her mad, crooked grin.