When the representative came on, she made him repeat the exact same information—why do they always do that?—along with the last four numbers of his social security and his address.

“What can I help you with today, Mr. Price?”

“There’s a charge on my Visa card from a company called Novelty Funsy.”

She asked him to spell funsy. Then: “Do you have the amount and date of the transaction?”

Adam gave her the information. He expected some pushback when he said the date—the charge was more than two years old—but the representative didn’t comment on that.

“What information do you need, Mr. Price?”

“I don’t recall buying anything from a company called Novelty Funsy.”

“Um,” the representative said.

“Um?”

“Um, some companies don’t bill under their real name. You know, to be discreet. Like when you go to a hotel and they tell you the name of the movie won’t be on your phone bill.”

She was talking about pornography or something involving sex. “That’s not the case here.”

“Well, let’s see what’s what, then.” The clacking of her keyboard came over the phone line. “Novelty Funsy is listed as an online retailer. That usually indicates that it is a company that values privacy. Does that help?”

Yes and no. “Is there any way to ask them for a detailed receipt?”

“Certainly. It may take a few hours.”

“I guess that’s okay.”

“We have an e-mail for you on file.” She read off his address. “Should we send it there?”

“That would be great.”

The representative asked whether she could assist him with any other matter. He said no, thanks. She wished him a good evening. He hung up the phone and stared at the charge screen. Novelty Funsy. Now that he thought about it, the name did sound like a discreet name for a sex shop.

“Dad?”

It was Thomas. Adam quickly reached for the screen’s off switch like, well, one of his sons watching porn.

“Hey,” Adam said, the very essence of casual. “What’s up?”

If his son found his father’s behavior bizarre, he didn’t show it. Teens were ridiculously clueless and self-involved. Right now, Adam appreciated that. What Thomas’s father did on the Internet couldn’t be the least bit interesting to him.

“Can you give me a ride to Justin’s?”

“Now?”

“He has my shorts.”

“What shorts?”

“My practice shorts. For practice tomorrow.”

“Can’t you wear other shorts?”

Thomas looked at his father as though a horn had sprung out of his forehead. “Coach says we have to wear the practice shorts to practice.”

“Can’t Justin just bring them to school tomorrow?”

“He was supposed to bring them today. He forgets.”

“So what did you use today?”

“Kevin had an extra pair. His brother’s. They were too big on me.”

“Can’t you tell Justin to put them in his backpack right now?”

“I could, yeah, but he won’t do it. It’s only like four blocks. I could use the practice driving anyway.”

Thomas had gotten his learner’s permit a week ago—the parental equivalent of a stress test without using an actual EKG machine. “Okay, I’ll be down in a sec.” Adam cleared the history on the browser and headed downstairs. Jersey was hoping for another walk and gave them the pitiful “I can’t believe you’re not taking me with you” eyes as they hurried past her. Thomas grabbed the keys and got behind the wheel.

Adam was now able to let go when he sat in the passenger seat. Corinne was too much of a control freak. She would keep shouting out instructions and cautions. She almost put her foot through the imaginary passenger-side brake. As Thomas pulled onto the street, Adam turned and studied his son’s profile. Some acne was forming on his cheeks. There was faint hair growing down the side of his face, Abe Lincoln’s lines if not thickness, but his son had to shave now. Not every day. Not more than once a week, but it was there. Thomas wore cargo shorts. His legs were hairy. He had beautiful blue eyes, his son. Everyone commented on them. They had the sparkling blue of ice.

Thomas pulled into the driveway, drifting a little close to the right curb.

“I’ll be two seconds,” he said.

“Okay.”

Thomas put the car in park and sprinted toward the front door. Justin’s mom, Kristin Hoy, opened it—Adam could see the bright shock of blond hair—and that surprised him. Kristin taught at the same high school as Corinne. The two women had grown pretty close. Adam had figured that she’d be down in Atlantic City, but then he remembered that this conference was for history and languages. Kristin taught math.

Kristin smiled and waved. He waved back. Thomas vanished into the house as Kristin started down the path toward the car. Politically incorrect as it sounded, Kristin Hoy was a MILF. Adam had overheard a bunch of Thomas’s friends saying that, though he could have figured it out on his own. Right now, she was sashaying toward him in painted-on jeans and a tight white top. She was some sort of competitive bodybuilder. Adam wasn’t sure what kind. Her name had a bunch of letters after it, and she had earned the distinction of being a “pro,” whatever that exactly entailed. Adam had never been a fan of the muscular weight lifting women of old, and in some of her competitive pictures, Kristin did indeed look a little corded and cut. The hair was a little too blond, the smile a little too white, the tan a little too orange, but the look worked pretty damn well in person.

“Hey, Adam.”

He wasn’t sure whether he should get out of the car. He settled for staying in his seat. “Hey, Kristin.”

“Corinne still away?”

“Yep.”

“But she’s back tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, I’ll touch base with her. We have to train. I’ve got the states in two weeks.”

On her Facebook page, she claimed to be a “fitness model” and “WBFF Pro.” Corinne envied her body. They had started working out together recently. Like most things that were good or bad for you, you reach a stage where what started as a happy habit turns into something of an obsession.

Thomas was back with the shorts.

“’Bye, Thomas.”

“’Bye, Mrs. Hoy.”

“Have a good night, boys. Don’t have too much fun with Mom away.”

She sashayed back toward the house.

Thomas said, “She’s kind of annoying.”

“That’s not nice.”

“You oughta see their kitchen.”

“Why? What’s wrong with their kitchen?”

“She has bikini pictures of herself on the fridge,” Thomas said. “It’s gross.”

Hard to argue. As Thomas pulled out, a small smile tugged at his lips.

“What?” Adam said.

“Kyle calls her a butterface,” Thomas said.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Hoy.”

Adam wondered if that was a new term for MILF or something. “What’s a butterface?”

“It’s what you call someone who’s not pretty—but she has a good body.”

“I’m not following,” Adam said.

“Butterface.” Then Thomas spoke slowly. “But. Her. Face.”

Adam tried not to smile as he shook his head in disapproval. He was about to admonish his son—wondering exactly how to do so and keep a straight face—when his cell phone rang. He looked down at the caller ID.

It was Corinne.

He hit the ignore button. He should pay attention to his son’s driving. Corinne would understand. He was about to put his phone in his pocket when he felt it vibrate. Fast for a voice mail, he thought, but no, it was an e-mail from his bank. He opened it. There were links to see the detailed purchases, but Adam barely noticed them.

“Dad? You okay?”

“Keep your eyes on the road, Thomas.”

He would go through it in detail when he got home, but right now, the top line of the e-mail said more than he wanted to know.

Novelty Funsy is a billing name for the following online retailer:

Fake-A-Pregnancy.com