“Try.”
“I cannot have every bad day become the registration again. If I hurt you now, tell me what I did now. Do not make me live inside the worst thing forever.”
Amy’s mouth tightened. “I was not planning to.”
“I know. I am saying the fear before I turn it into a joke or an accusation.”
She considered it. “That is reasonable.”
“And I need affection not to become a grade.”
Her shoulders went rigid. “I did not withhold it as punishment.”
“That came out wrong.” I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the bench. “I mean I do not want honesty to become a performance I use to earn touch. I need to tell you the truth because it is true.”
Amy’s posture eased. “That is different.”
“Yes.”
We sat with the water moving below us. No one was crying. No one was collapsing. Repair looked less cinematic than I had imagined. Mostly it looked like two tired women specifying what had happened and what would be different.
“I missed you,” Amy said.
The admission hit hard. I kept my hands together. “I missed you too.”
“I hated the race package.”
I stared.
“I also loved it,” she added. “The categories overlap.”
“Terrible system.”
“Human system.”
She took a breath. “I want to try again. Slowly.”
Hope hit too fast. “Because of the race?”
“No.”
“Sorry.”
“Because you accepted the consequences before you knew whether I would return, gave me complete information, and kept a six-o’clock cardigan delivery from becoming a romantic event.”
Amy’s mouth twitched despite the seriousness she was trying to maintain.
“The cardigan was very romantic.”
“Dani.”
“Sorry. Reflex.” I let a beat pass. “Real relationship?”
“Yes.”
“Not provisional?”
“No.”
