Carolyn and Joanna exchanged looks. He’d been talked about, he knew, and they’d judged him to be distinctly not okay. Their neighbor was a big, strapping woman who’d run a gardening business before she took time off for the baby. “Kind of butch” was how Joanna described her, admiringly, referring to Carolyn’s physical strength and no-nonsense manner. Her husband—Ethan could never remember his name—raced and sold motorcycles, and Ethan often saw him in front of their house, stripped to his undershirt, fiddling with his collection of bikes. Husband-what’s-his-name had a wiry, muscled body—washboard stomach, great quads, tight pecs—and Ethan, who was getting more slack-muscled by the year, had to console himself with the thought that Carolyn’s husband probably wasn’t very bright.