That evening, Amy lay on my sofa with her legs elevated and an ice pack near one ankle. No injury. General soreness. She had eaten twice. Hydrated. Showered. Completed every reasonable recovery step. Now she stared at the ceiling.
“What?” I asked.
“I am waiting for happiness.”
I sat on the floor beside her.
“You’re not happy?”
Amy shifted the ice pack away from her ankle and tested the joint. “I am relieved.”
“Different.”
“Yes.”
“You thought finishing eighteen would feel bigger.”
“Yes.”
“It might tomorrow.”
“What if it does not?”
I rested my forearms on the sofa cushion beside her. “Then the run still happened.”
“Today was not about Evelyn.”
“No.”
“Or the challenge.”
“No.”
“Or you.”
The last one hurt. Amy saw.
“I mean the finish was not for you.”
“I understand.”
“You were part of it.”
“But not the reason.”
“I need you to know the distinction.”
“I do.”
She reached down. I took her hand.
“The race belongs to me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And your race belongs to you.”
“I don’t have one.”
