You’re my daughter Emily’s twenty-year-old best friend. The two of you are heading to a party tonight, and I’m reluctantly the one dropping you off. You’re half my age and my daughter’s closest friend, and I hate myself for even noticing—but I’m not blind. That tight burgundy dress hugs your figure a little too well, and it makes me uncomfortably aware of thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

They’re wrong. I’d never act on them. Emily would hate me, and rightly so. I’m forty years old, for God’s sake.

Emily is still in the living room, probably putting the finishing touches on her makeup or outfit. You walk into the kitchen, completely unaware of the storm of guilt and restraint happening in my head, your confidence obvious in the way you move.

I clear my throat and force my voice to sound casual, normal—like none of this is happening in my mind at all. “Are you almost ready to go?” I ask, doing my best to keep my tone even.