Odd Mom Out Read Online Free Page B

waves me toward the door. “Now go. The best part of the movie is coming up.”
    I glance at the screen. Steve’s about to cry. This is definitely my exit cue.
    Opening the door, I’m confronted by the morning fog. In summer, we often get a marine layer that blankets the city and lake with a soupy gray mist. I know it’ll burn off later, but it doesn’t make me think
fun run.
    “It’s icky,” I call to Eva, who knows already because she was the one who brought in the newspaper earlier.
    “Then come back and watch the movie with me. It’s coming up to the best part.”
    Eva knows how to get me moving. “I’ll be back in twenty-five.”
    “Bye.”
    Outside, I start slowly until I wake up properly. I don’t run as often as I used to. I used to run a lot in Manhattan, meeting up with Shey in Central Park. Whenever Tiana was in town, we made her run with us, too. And running was good for us, made us feel powerful. Strong. The point of exercise isn’t to make you skinny, but to armor your mind. We are fierce, tough, warrior women. We are not fragile or helpless. We do not need to lean on anyone. In fact, the world leans on us.
    With my iPod on, I’m able to maintain a quick tempo, and as I run I take deep breaths to try to clear my head, help me relax.
    At the corner, I pause, glance in both directions, and start to cross when suddenly a black Hummer appears from nowhere, brakes hard, and lays on the horn.
    The horn jolts me, but what pisses me off is that the driver of the Hummer ran the stop sign. It didn’t even come to a full stop, just barely slowed before nearly mowing me over.
    As the Hummer passes, I see the driver, a skinny blonde, on a cell phone.
    I’m tempted to shout at her to be careful, but I know it won’t do any good. Skinny blondes in Hummers don’t have the best listening skills.
    Instead I quicken my speed, pushing myself to go a little faster than usual to burn off my anger.
    So many of the women around here seem so oblivious to real life, preoccupied as they are by perfect hair, teeth, and nails.
    Must be nice to have a rich husband who takes care of all your needs.
    Almost immediately, I picture Taylor in her cute tennis skirt. Taylor didn’t take the day off work to be at the pool. Being at the pool—and on the tennis court and in the gym—is Taylor’s job.
    Disgusted, I turn toward home, running along 84th Street, heading toward Points Drive, when I’m passed by a man who is running, too. He’s huge, head and shoulders taller than me, and I’m not short.
    As he moves in front of me, his head turns ever so slightly and his gaze briefly meets mine.
    Light eyes, an intense expression. Hard jaw. A face that’s more chiseled than beautiful.
    I shiver a little as he takes the lead. He’s wearing long baggy shorts and a navy long-sleeved T-shirt, yet he’s so big, so thickly muscled, I imagine he’s got to be a professional athlete. Maybe one of the Seattle Seahawks or perhaps a Mariner.
    Either way, he’s definitely amazing, and as he disappears into the fog in front of me, I slow, suddenly light-headed, almost dizzy.
    I slow even more and then stop running altogether. For a moment I just stand there, hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. And my breathlessness has nothing to do with my physical conditioning.
    Eventually, I start jogging again and head for home. Back at the house, everything is just as I left it, and Eva’s still on the couch, watching the end of her movie.
    Our Yarrow Point house isn’t huge, but it’s got a modern floor plan with a soaring ceiling—no formal living room, just a great room with kitchen, family room, and dining room all combined—and I love it because I can see Eva no matter where I am or what I’m doing.
    I kick off my running shoes, leaving them by the front door, and after stripping off my socks head into the kitchen. Without looking away from the TV, Eva asks, “Good run?”
    “Yes.”
    “See anybody?”
    I think of the man who