“I did.”
“You said the race belonged to you.”
“It does.”
Dani’s fear returned—not panic, but being chosen for the wrong reason.
“I don’t want you sacrificing your marathon to rescue me.”
“I am not rescuing you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
The gold star on my hand readSafeisexcellent.Walkingisforward.At mile eighteen, Dani had not waited. She had honored my race. At mile twenty-two, she had asked before letting me enter hers. A fair choice did not require matching choices. It required correct ownership. Dani had protected my race at eighteen. Now she was asking before I entered hers.
“I am deciding what I want,” I said.
Dani waited. I searched beneath guilt, love, anger, and the old need to make every choice defensible.
“I want to finish my first marathon beside the woman I love.”
Dani’s face broke. She looked away. I continued before emotion turned the decision into something else.
“That does not erase what happened.”
“I know.”
“It does not automatically restart the relationship.”
“I know.”
A runner brushed past my shoulder, muttering an apology without slowing. Dani shifted farther from the center of the course, giving me room even while every part of her seemed to want closeness.
“It does not mean I am responsible for whether you finish.”
“Yes.”
“And you are not responsible for my finish.”
“I know.”
Just over four miles remained—too far for promises, close enough for choices. “I may change my mind in one mile.”
“You can.”
“I may need to run ahead.”
“You can.”
The steadiness of both answers made the last one easier to say. “I may hate you again by mile twenty-five.”
“Likely.”
A laugh escaped me. It hurt my abdomen. Dani smiled through tears.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Her answer mattered equally. She looked at the course. Then at me.
