The door swings open. He’s standing there shirtless, shaving cream covering the lower half of his face, razor in hand. “I thought I should shave,” he says, by way of explanation. “Since your mom’s coming.” I fight a smile. “You once told me that women of a certain age love the scruffy thing.” “Oh, they do.” He leans against the sink. “I can’t have your mom falling in love with me.”
