Molly is standing on the stoop when I finally hobble to the door, barefoot and sloppy, hair a mess, no coffee running through my veins.

She looks me up and down with teenage disdain before laying eyes on Chewy, who’s tearing toward her from behind me. Molly squats to greet him. “There’s my boy!” the teenager coos, all eyes on the dog. “There’s my handsome boy.”

Chewy lunges at her full force in a not-so-handsome way, plowing into her, but not knocking her off her feet as I expect him to. Luckily. Molly is tiny and I don’t need the kid sprawled out on her ass in my foyer.

“Morning, Moll,” I say, opening the door all the way so she can come inside. Then, without preamble, I turn back into the foyer, so I can grab coffee from the kitchen.

“Rough night?” she asks, trudging along behind me once Chewy calms down and lets her up.

“No,” I grunt. Molly is fifteen; she doesn’t need to know what a grown man does in his free time.

She pads along behind me, not bothering to remove her sneakers. “Who is that girl you were with last night?”

“No one.” I have the coffee maker on automatic brew, so the pot is full and piping hot when I pour some into a mug.

Sip it slowly so it doesn’t scald my mouth, ignoring Molly’s question.

“Didn’t look like no one.” She’s scratching Chewy’s floppy little ears while at the same time stretching her free arm out to snatch his leash down off the hook by the laundry room door. “Looked like you had your tongue down No One’s throat.”

Whatever liquid I had in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe and a coughing fit begins.

What the hell did she just say?

“Tongue down whose throat?” I continue feigning ignorance, dread filling my gut along with the scalding hot coffee, Mom’s frantic words and warnings assailing me at once.

Shit.

Fuck.

Hump the girl in broad daylight…check the internet…SportsCenter…

“You’re not very good at lying, Mr. Wallace.” Molly latches Chewy’s lead to his collar then makes a show of swiping the screen of her phone. Holds it out so I can see. “Your tongue. Her throat.”

Holy.

Christ.

The photo shoved in my face shows Chandler on top of me in front of her townhouse in the rain and we’re kissing, rain illuminated by the streetlights, glistening like glitter.

We look like a romance novel cover.

The kind of book Darla would choose.

This was the picture Mom was trying to tell me about. I ignored her warnings, not having been in the mood to check the news or my phone or the internet for a story I knew would appear in some way, shape, or form.

But this?

The last thing I was expecting to see, especially from the adolescent dog walker.

“Is this your girlfriend?” Molly wants to know, staring me down as only a teenage girl can do, all judgmental like, while winding and unwinding the slack from Chewy’s lead around her hand.

Why hasn’t she left yet?

“No.”

“She’s pretty.”

How the hell can you tell? My tongue is down her throat and you can’t see her face, I want to ask but remember myself in time, remember who my audience is.

I grunt.

“Why are you on the ground with her if she’s not your girlfriend?”

Molly has settled at the end of the counter, hip resting against the cold, marble top, in no rush to get Chewy out the door.

“She’s giving me CPR. I passed out.”

Molly rolls her eyes. “Why won’t you just tell me what you’re doing with her on the ground?”

Wow. Kids really are naïve these days.

Thank god.

“What are you doing, trying to be a lawyer? I thought you wanted to be a vet—stop cross-examining me like I’m on the witness stand.”

Witless stand is more like it.

I’m the idiot who got caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

“Just answer the question.” The teen has no tolerance for my bullshit and isn’t going to let this matter drop. “I want to know about boys.”

“No, Molly, you do not. Trust me, we’re all bags of shit.” Her eyes go wide at my choice of words and I retract the statement with a tamer, “Er, I mean, we’re all scum.”

Her eyes roll. “Not every guy is a bag of shit.”

Fuck, now she’s swearing. “No cursing.”

“You just did.”

“Yeah but I’m old.”

“Duh.”

I don’t know if I should be offended by that or glad she seems to have dropped the subject.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving? I have shi—stuff to do around here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Just tell me how you ended up on the ground. It makes no sense.”

I eyeball her skeptically, giving her my most intimidating stare so she’ll fade away like I want her to. “Do your parents know you’re like this?”

“Yes.” She sighs as if I’m the most exasperating person ever. “They made me this way.” Duh. “So how’d you end up down there?”