“No. I thought fear was normal.”
I rubbed one thumb along the edge of the blanket. In the dark, the old fear felt closer and less explainable.
“It is.”
“Some fear.”
“How do I know the difference?”
“You don’t always.”
I answered honestly. Amy shifted on the mattress. The pillows moved slightly.
“What if I panic tomorrow?”
“Then your shoulders will climb and your breath will get fast. We slow down. Walk. Get water. If it keeps rising, we ask medical staff for help.”
“What if I cannot finish?”
“Then someone takes the bib number, gets you warm, and helps us back to the hotel.”
The heater clicked off, leaving the room exposed.
I kept my voice plain. “Your legs will still have run every mile before the stop. We can decide what it means after you have eaten and slept.”
I meant it for both of us. Amy understood.
“Did you believe that after your race?”
“No.”
“Do you now?”
“I’m trying.”
She reached over the pillow barrier. Her palm waited in the dark. Level One. No public requirement or practical reason. I placed my hand in hers. Her fingers closed.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“Thank you for staying.”
We held hands across the pillows. Eventually, her breathing deepened. I thought she was asleep.
Then she said, “The date is still after the race.”
“I know.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am capable of patience.”
“You proposed fake dating after knowing me three weeks.”
“Strategic patience.”
She made a quiet sound that might have been laughter. Then silence. I fell asleep holding her hand.
Sometime after midnight, Amy woke gasping. The sound pulled me from sleep immediately. She had pushed upright against the headboard. The duvet tangled around her legs. Her breathing came fast.
