The powerful engine of Wring's bike grows more distant. I shut the door, blocking out the motor. I turn, placing my palms flat on the door, and try to forget that moment in the entryway. It's harder than it should be. I rotate around slowly. Mom sits in the gloom. The small lamp she reads by casts a soft glow and shadows throughout the space. Her face rises from her book, and she smiles. Then Mom takes in my disheveled outfit, and something in my face must tell her. “What is it, darling?” she asks. I duck my head, hiding the quivering of my bottom lip. Wimp, I chastise myself. “I had a tough day.” Understatement of the year. “I'd say,” she says with a wry twist of lips. I jerk my head up at the tone in her voice. “I saw that young man outside.” Her smile remains. Oh God. A blush flares to life, and I feel like my head will blow up. “Mom, you're not supposed to run around.” She smooths her painter-style shirt over her wasted thighs. “I believe my days of running are long over.”
