“Yes,” Dani said.
“For the competition,” I added.
The salesperson’s gaze moved between us.
“Right. I saw the video.”
Of course she had. Dani put an arm around my shoulders. Level One. Allowed.
“Local celebrities,” she said.
“I am not a celebrity.”
“You have a fan account.”
“Tessa told you?”
“Tessa follows it.”
“I need to change my emergency contact.”
The salesperson laughed. Dani looked pleased. We began with shoes because mine had accumulated more mileage than expected. Dani rejected my researched model as too firm.
“The durability rating is higher.”
“Your feet do not read reviews.”
A pressure-mat and treadmill analysis recommended a more cushioned shoe. Dani noticed when I altered my stride to look experienced and told me to stop performing. The salesperson asked whether we always communicated this way.
“Yes,” we answered together.
Dani held up the recommended pair.
“Try these.”
“The color is pink.”
“Coral.”
“It is pink.”
“Scared?”
“No.”
“Then put them on.”
I sat on the fitting bench. Dani knelt in front of me before the salesperson could assist.
“I can tie my own shoes.”
“I know.”
She loosened the laces and guided my foot into the first shoe. Her hand cupped the back of my ankle, entirely practical. My body supplied the complication. She adjusted the tongue, tightened the laces, and pressed one thumb lightly over the top of my foot.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
