She barely made the question audible. There it was. The final quiz answer. Will you stay after the challenge ends?
“I want to,” I said.
Amy lifted her head. Our faces were close in the dark.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want this to end because the competition does.”
Her breath changed. I continued before I lost courage.
“I know we need boundaries. I know your training matters. I know I have to figure out what the marathon means for me. But I want the real date. I want more dates. I want to know what happens when we stop pretending.”
Amy’s fingers closed around mine.
“I want that too,” she said.
She spoke quietly. Certain. A kiss waited between us. No public pressure. No rule that still made sense. I could feel her breath. Amy’s gaze moved to my mouth. I leaned closer. Then stopped.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered.
Her eyes closed briefly.
“Tomorrow.”
We lay down again. The barrier remained on the floor. Amy turned onto her side. I stayed on mine. For approximately thirty seconds. Then she moved closer in her sleep. Her head settled beneath my chin. One arm crossed my waist. I remained still. Technically, rule five had collapsed through unconscious conduct. I was willing to accept the violation. I wrapped an arm around her. Her body relaxed against mine.
The date was after the race. The kiss was after the race. Everything important waited after the race. For once, the future did not feel like a threat. It felt close enough to hold.
Chapter Seventeen
Thirteen Point One
Amy
At four forty-five on Saturday, July twenty-sixth, Dani’s alarm began playing a song with enough bass to disturb neighboring counties. I woke with one arm around her waist. This created several immediate problems. The first was that rule five had failed completely. The second was that Dani’s body was warm beneath mine, and removing my arm felt less like correcting a violation than abandoning an excellent decision.
The third was the half marathon. Thirteen point one miles waited outside the hotel room. The number had occupied my thoughts for six weeks. It appeared in my training plan, my calendar, my browser history, and several dreams involving missing shoes. Now the race existed three hours away. Dani moved beneath my arm. Her hand closed around my wrist before she opened her eyes.
“Morning,” she said.
Her voice was rough with sleep. I became aware of how closely we were pressed together.
“Your alarm is excessive.”
“So is dawn.”
“You selected the song.”
“I made decisions before consciousness.”
The music continued. Neither of us moved toward the phone. Dani looked down at my arm. Then at me.
“The barrier failed.”
“The pillows lacked structural integrity.”
“Tragic.”
