“You know very little about me.”
“You made a twenty-page preliminary framework within twelve hours of registering.”
“Twenty-three.”
“Thank you for strengthening my argument.”
I aligned my thumbs.
“My former girlfriend said I was afraid to take risks.”
Dani’s teasing stopped.
“We were together for three years,” I continued. “She ended the relationship six months ago. On Saturday, at her engagement party, I announced that I was running the marathon.”
Dani blinked.
“Her engagement party? To someone else?”
“That is generally how engagement parties function.”
Dani leaned back. “How much champagne?”
“One glass. I registered the following morning while sober.”
“That makes it more concerning. Most people send a regrettable text after seeing an ex. You selected endurance suffering.”
She smiled, but the teasing was gentler now.
“Do you want to run the marathon,” she asked, “or do you want your ex to know you ran it?”
I had prepared for scrutiny, not that. I disliked it.
“I paid the entry fee,” I said.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t know yet.”
Dani nodded. It was the first answer she had accepted without pushing.
“That’s honest,” she said. “We can work with honest.”
The statement produced a reaction in her that I could not read. She looked at the tablet again.
“Here’s what I can tell you today. You have twenty weeks. That’s enough time for many beginners if they have a reasonable base and stay healthy.”
“And if they don’t have a reasonable base?”
“Then we find out what they do have.”
“I can run.”
I sat a little straighter, as though posture could turn the claim into evidence. Dani’s gaze flicked to my shoes.
“I saw.”
“The treadmill incident—”
