Her hand tightened around the cup. There it was.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What happens if you decide not to race?”
“I keep running.”
“And if you decide to race?”
“I tell you.”
“And after my marathon?”
“I don’t know.”
The uncertainty expanded. Not because I needed a complete five-year plan. Because Dani’s future still became vague at the exact point where the marathon stopped providing structure.
“Do you see me in it?” I asked.
Her head turned sharply.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then say more than normal things.”
Dani stood and paced toward the kitchen. Fear became movement. I waited. She returned.
“I want you in my apartment,” she said. “Not permanently tomorrow. But enough that your things end up here.”
My hair ties already formed a neat stack beside her keys.
“They already have.”
“I want to go to your parents’ house and have your dad research my employment rights.”
“He would.”
“I want Lola to stop asking whether you’re coming to Christmas because everyone already knows.”
The future opened too quickly in front of me.
“I want to take the certification and build the beginner program. I want you to tell me when the budget is stupid. I want to run because I want to run, whether that includes the marathon or not.”
She stopped in front of me.
“I want mornings that don’t begin with pretending.”
Her answer met every part of the question. I stood.
“That is after,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why was it difficult to say?”
