I laughed. “I’m just trying not to fall apart.”
She shook her head. “No. You move like a coach.”
“I used to compete,” I admitted. “Before kids. That’s it.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” she said. “I’m Lila, by the way.”
On my way out, she called after me: “Hey, give me your number.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Because you don’t belong in a strip-mall gym forever. There might be something better.”
I handed it over, assuming nothing would come of it.
Weeks later, she texted: “Can you talk tonight?”
We spoke after bedtime. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at a pile of dishes.
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