I looked at the menu. Back at Midlife Crisis. “Can you ask the chef what he recommends? Is that weird?”

“No… of course not…” said Midlife Crisis, shaking his head politely, although this was clearly the weirdest thing he’d been asked all week. “Lemme go ask.”

“Thanks. I’m his daughter.”

Midlife Crisis had already begun to walk away, but my departing comment stopped him in his polished loafers. He turned around.

“Luis’s daughter?” he asked, like he already knew that was impossible.

“Roscoe’s daughter,” I said. “I’m Wynonna.”

Every ounce of existential dread vanished from Midlife Crisis’s countenance. His eyes were pure “holy shit.” Apparently, Wynonna was a hot topic of conversation at Newell House.

He nodded stupidly and wandered off. I watched him, following his path across the restaurant, through a pair of silver doors leading into a well-lit kitchen.

Seconds later, the silver doors cracked open again, and a full-grown man peeked through them, hunched over like a little kid. Though only a sliver of him was visible, it was a giant, unmistakable sliver.

It was Roscoe.

I smiled and waved.

His eyes went wide, and he disappeared into the kitchen.

It was at least a solid minute later before he finally reappeared.

He was wearing a black double-breasted chef jacket with matching slacks. He filled them like a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. The guy was ginormous—at least six feet tall and built like the body double for Jason Momoa.

Every muscle was stiff. His face was an effigy. The guy was petrified.

When he finally reached my table, I thought he might vomit.

He opened his mouth.

I was sure he was going to vomit.

Words spilled out. They spewed everywhere—violent, chunky, relentless.

“I can explain,” he said. “I was only following you because I recognized your car one day, and I noticed you were having trouble with your manual transmission, so I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Plus, the crime rate’s not great around here. Like, there’s this serial groper who keeps making the rounds on the local news—total psycho creep—and he seems to be targeting college girls around campus, which is right by where you and Carol live, and anyway, I promise I wasn’t following you. I mean, I obviously was, but not in a weird way. Um. How’s Carol?”

Wow. I felt so bad for this guy. My heart was breaking just listening to him try to talk.

“Would you like to sit?” I said. I gestured to the seat across from me—in case he tried to sit on the floor. He seemed to be in that sort of mental state.

He fumbled with the chair but managed to insert himself into it.