“Aw, what a cute nickname,” I comment. “IsThe Wizard of Ozher favorite movie?”
Caroline scowls at me. “It’sCoco.”
“Oh.” I catch Rhett smirking out of the corner of my eye as I squat down so I’m eye level with Quinn. “You must be the birthday girl! Iloveyour boots. Do they come in my size?”
She giggles and shakes her head.
I snap my fingers. “Darn it. I was hoping we could match.”
“You asked a woman to be your nanny before she’s ever even met Quinn?” Caroline accuses him.
Oops.
“When do we get cake?” Henry yells, and I’ve never been more thankful for one of his bold interruptions.
I pivot to face him, still on my haunches. “We wait patiently until they say it’s time.”
I can’t imagine, after a couple of weeks, anyone in this family knows much about Henry. I stand to explain that he’s on the spectrum, but I don’t get the chance. A gentleman with a perfectly manicured beard and combed-over gray hair—Caroline’s husband, I presume—waves us into the kitchen.
“I think it’s theperfecttime. Wadda ya say we dive into those cupcakes?” he says.
“Cupcakes?!” Henry drops my hand and pushes past Caroline.
She glares at him, and I have to bite my tongue not to tell her to have some patience. Despite working hard on them, social cues are not his strength.
They’re not Rhett Dawson’s either, given the way he abandons me in his entryway. I remind myself it was only ten minutes we spent together. Not nearly enough time to know much of anything about someone. It’s unfair of me to consider his demeanor uncharacteristic in comparison.
“Henwee!” Quinn shouts, wrapping her small arms around his shoulders.
At leastsheknows who he is.
His hands remain clenched at his sides, and when she accidentally knocks into his glasses, he lifts a hand to straighten them.
“I’d like a cupcake,” he tells her.
I lean forward and whisper in his ear. “Please.”
“Please,” Henry adds.
“Da-eee, tuptates?” Quinn runs to Rhett and jumps up and down.
He brushes a hand through her curls, and they bounce back into place. “Let’s do it.”
With Caroline already corralling the kids to the kitchen table, I need something to do. Standing off to the side as an observer is not my forte, so I sidle up next to Rhett and ask how I can help.
“I’m good, thanks,” he says.
He’s fishing through an Albertson’s sack, and everyone but me misses it when he pauses. His eyes flash to Caroline as she divvies up the dessert. He pulls open a drawer in the kitchen island, rustling through tongs and spatulas.
“You sure I can’t help with something?”
Either he didn’t hear me or is lost in his own world. He doesn’t respond.
Another drawer gives way with his frantic tug, sending measuring cups and silverware sloshing around it. He shoves the drawer closed and reaches for an upper cabinet. The deep wrinkle seated between his eyebrows is the definition of overwhelmed and stressed.
What is he looking for?
“Does everyone have one?” Caroline asks.
