“Cruel.”
“You have a home.”
“I know.”
“Did you sleep?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I uncovered my face.
“That is medically irresponsible.”
“I am not treating you.”
The phrase hurt. Rose stood in front of me.
“Why?”
Rose’s question contained no softness. I had prepared explanations. Crossing mile twenty-two. The eighteen-mile run.Amy telling me she loved me whether I raced or not. The charity deadline. The feeling that if I waited, courage would disappear. None changed the choice.
“I wanted the entry,” I said.
“So you registered.”
“Yes.”
“You agreed not to.”
“Yes.”
“You agreed to tell me before any race decision.”
“Yes.”
Each yes landed harder because none of them could be disputed.
“You told me Tuesday there was no change.”
“I said I was still under the return plan.”
“Technical truth.”
“Yes.”
Rose went rigid.
“You know exactly what you did.”
“Yes.”
“Why hide it from Amy?”
“Because I knew what she would ask.”
“Whether it was healthy.”
