“It felt good, didn’t it?” Ricky couldn’t get those words out of his head. Was the “it” what he had been doing under his sheet, or was it getting caught by his mother? They had always been close, but this was too close…yet it also felt right, like it was destined that she would catch him in the act of daydreaming about Farah Fawcett.
After Ricky’s father had left, on that fittingly and unusually chilly April morning, he had liked to think of himself as the man of the house. He had no choice, really, and now he saw his opportunity to fully embrace the role. He lifted up the sheet, down at his Bosley, and quietly whispered, “Thanks, dude.” He threw the sheet back over himself.