Amy met my eyes. “Do not increase treadmill incline, reject dates for the other person, interrupt conversations, or engage in unapproved physical affection.”
The list was too specific to be theoretical. “What if Evelyn touches you again?”
“You manage your own emotions.”
“Hostile.”
“Necessary.” She did not look away, and the firmness in her face made the rule feel less like administration than a warning.
I accepted it. “Agreed.”
Amy picked up her bag. At the door, she paused.
“For the record,” she said, “I did not like Simone asking you out because I want you to be unavailable.”
My heart stopped. She continued before I could answer.
“I do not yet know what I want you to be unavailable for.”
Then she opened the door and walked away. I stood in the consultation room alone. A second later, my phone buzzed. A message from Rose.
Rose: Evelyn just asked Amy to coffee. Are you behaving?
I stared through the glass at Amy crossing the lobby.
Dani: Define behaving.
The typing indicator appeared. Then stopped. Then appeared again.
Rose: You are exhausting.
The doorway remained empty. She wanted me unavailable. Not a relationship or a promise, not enough to change the agreement—but more than I had before.
At ten seventeen that night, Amy sent me a screenshot. A message from Evelyn:
Tomorrow at eleven still works. There are things about the past—and about Dani—that I think you deserve to know.
I read the final line twice. About me. The room went cold around me. I typed:
What does she mean?
Amy replied:
I don’t know.
Then:
Do you?
I sat on the edge of my bed. The old marathon bibs were in the drawer beside me. The first race. The panic no one knew about except Rose. The second race. The injury. Public results anyone could find if they searched. I had told Amy I had no finishes. I had not told her the full truth. Evelyn could know only what was public.
Unless she had asked someone. Unless she had found old photos or race reports. Unless the story had traveled farther than I realized. My fingers hovered over the screen. Accurate information. Direct answers. Do not use privacy to mislead. I typed:
I told you the public facts. Two starts. No finishes. One medical removal. One injury.
I stopped. The safer answer waited: no danger, no misconduct, nothing relevant. All technically useful. None of it addressed the thing she had asked. I typed again.
There are private medical details I have not shared because I am ashamed of them. Evelyn should not know them. I will tell you directly—not by text and not through her—before we decide whether this arrangement changes.
