Chapter Six The Proposal
Chapter Six
The Proposal
Dani
Fake dating Amy Price for twelve weeks was not a recognized professional-development funding strategy.
Savings, employer assistance, and fewer breakfast burritos all ranked higher.
That did not make the idea bad. It made it innovative.
By nine forty-five Saturday morning, I had organized the argument into financial benefit, training benefit, competitive benefit, and low emotional risk.
The last category required creativity. I sat at a small table outside Bellweather Coffee, across from a mural of two enormous blue birds.
Spring sunlight warmed the pavement, though the air still carried enough cold to justify the jacket I had forgotten at home.
Amy arrived at nine fifty-three. Seven minutes early.
She wore dark jeans, a cream sweater, and the silver watch.
Her hair was down, moving softly around her shoulders in the breeze.
I had seen her in work clothes once, through the gym windows when she stopped by to drop off a form.
This was different. Not gym Amy. Not spreadsheet-war Amy.
Saturday Amy. My argument lost structural integrity. She stopped beside the table.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“You criticize me when I say that.”
“I’m learning from you.”
She sat.
“You said you had a proposal.”
“Coffee first.”
“This is a negotiation tactic.”
“It’s hospitality.”
“You already ordered.”
I had two cups on the table. Amy looked at the one in front of the empty chair.
“Black coffee with a small amount of oat milk,” she said.
“That’s yours.”
“You remembered.”
“You told me at the diner.”
“I was tired.”
“You were asleep on my shoulder. It affected my memory.”
Her cheeks colored. I slid the cup toward her. She checked the label, though I knew she was trying not to.
“Correct?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good start.”
“To what?”
“The proposal.”
She wrapped both hands around the cup.
“Proceed.”
“You make everything sound like court.”
“I prefer clarity.”
“Okay. We enter the Better Together Challenge.”
Her face did not change. That was one of the things I liked about her. Most people responded to bad ideas before the sentence ended. Amy gave them a full audit.
“We are not a couple,” she said.
“I understand.”
“The challenge requires romantic partners.”
“I read the rules.”
“Then your proposal is already invalid.”
“We pretend.”
There. Simple. Amy stopped with her cup halfway to her mouth. A car moved through the intersection. Someone opened the café door behind us, releasing the smell of coffee and baked sugar.
“You want us to pretend to be girlfriends,” she said.
“For twelve weeks.”
“No.”
She lifted the cup. I had expected more discussion.
“The prize covers most of my certification,” I said. “You get your entry reimbursed, the gear package, and the hotel weekend.”
“I can afford all three.”
“Financial stability is very sexy.”
“That is not relevant. You are my trainer.”
“Currently. The arrangement would require boundaries.”
“The arrangement would require a severe lapse in judgment.”
“We already have chemistry.”
Amy’s cup stopped halfway to her mouth. “We have conflict.”
“Conflict with good lighting.”
“No.”
“You read the rules, though.”
“Weekly partner events, public scoring, social media requirements, audience voting, and three appearances outside normal training.” She said it without looking at the packet.
“When?”
“Before you texted.”
“So you were curious.”
“I was assessing the competition’s effect on gym access.”
“And Evelyn entering?”
A pause. “Partly.”
I should have left it there. “She thinks you’ll quit.”
Amy’s expression cooled. “That is not a reason to enter.”
“No. And I shouldn’t use her to sell you the idea.”
The apology shifted her posture by half an inch. Progress. Amy looked toward the mural. A gust of wind moved her hair across her face. She tucked it behind one ear. I tried to remember the next part of the argument. Low emotional risk. Right.
“We’d have rules,” I said.
Amy aligned her coffee cup with the table edge. “Rules do not repair an unethical premise. The application requires a romantic partnership, and we would be lying for financial gain.”
“Acting for a prize.”
“That distinction will not survive an audit.”
“We pretend-date temporarily.”
“You are using date and pretend as if they cancel each other.”
“The activities will look the same.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
I sat back. Amy took a drink of coffee. She had not left. That was something.
“Why me?” she asked.
I answered too quickly.
“Because you need the prize.”
“I told you I don’t.”
“Because Evelyn is entering.”
“That is a bad reason.”
I counted on my fingers. “The challenges overlap your training, and we already know each other.”
“One includes a blindfolded smoothie, and we have known each other for three weeks.”
“Feels longer.”
“It does.”
We both went quiet. The admission had come from her. I tried not to smile.
Amy narrowed her eyes. “That was not an expression of intimacy.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I have one face.”
The corner of her mouth betrayed her. I let the silence stay.
People passed on the sidewalk. The café filled behind us.
Somewhere down the block, a dog barked at a delivery truck.
I could have listed more practical reasons.
She was organized. Reliable. Competitive enough to take the challenge seriously.
Attractive enough that pretending would not require imagination.
But the real answer sat beneath those. I wanted to spend more time with her. That was not part of the argument.
“Because I trust you,” I said.
Amy set down her cup. I had surprised myself too, and corrected quickly.
“With planning. And logistics. And not disappearing with the money.”
“That is a very specific kind of trust.”
“It’s a beginning.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“What would pretending involve?”
Progress. I kept both hands around my coffee.
“Training together. Weekly challenges. Some public affection. Social posts. A few dates for content.”
“What kind of affection?”
“Hand-holding. Arms around each other. Maybe kissing.”
Amy’s fingers tightened around the paper cup. The lid gave a small plastic click.
“No.”
“You rejected that part fast.”
“Kissing is unnecessary.”
“Couples kiss.”
“Not constantly.”
“Evelyn will know.”
Her expression cooled.
“Then this is about provoking her.”
“It’s about winning.”
“You mentioned her before the prize.”
“Because she’s motivation.”
“For me or you?”
Good question. I had met Evelyn once and already disliked her. That did not justify using Amy’s breakup to sell the idea.
“I shouldn’t have pushed that,” I said.
The apology changed her posture slightly.
“I’m sorry.”
She watched me for a moment.
“Thank you.”
“The challenge would help me. A lot.” I turned the cup between my palms. “The certification starts in the fall. I can drain most of my savings for the deposit in five weeks. If I miss it again, I wait another year. Blake may reimburse part after completion, but not before, and my client schedule is nearly full.”
“What about a workshop?”
“I’m considering beginner running.”
“You should do it.”
“I do.”
“You would be good at it.”
The certainty in her voice hit harder than I wanted.
“You’ve seen me coach for three weeks.”
“I have seen you modify exercises without humiliating people. I have seen you adjust plans based on actual performance. I have seen you remember details that other people would overlook.”
She paused.
“And I ran one mile.”
“You did.”
“I would not have done it correctly alone.”
The praise warmed me and made the lie about my own race history feel heavier. I scraped a thumbnail over the cup seam.
“Still,” she said, “that does not make fake dating a responsible financial strategy.”
“Probably not.”
“I expected you to argue.”
“I can be reasonable.”
“You named a treadmill.”
“Geraldine is not part of this.”
Amy took another drink.
“Have you asked anyone else?”
“No.”
“Why?”
The truthful answer was too dangerous. I wanted you. I tried a safer version.
“You’re the best fit.”
“For a fake girlfriend?”
“For the challenge. You’re training for the marathon, available for the events, organized, and competitive.”
“I am not competitive.”
“You raced Carol.”
“She passed us, and her age was not apparent from behind.”
I smiled. Amy did not, but the corners of her mouth shifted.
“You also already know what I’m like,” I said.
“That is an argument against the plan.”
“You won’t be surprised.”
“I am surprised constantly.”
“In a good way?”
“No.”
“Sometimes?”
She held my gaze over the rim of her cup. Sometimes. She did not need to say it.
“What happens to the coaching relationship?” she asked.
I had prepared for that part because it was the part most likely to make the proposal indefensible.
“Miguel becomes your formal coach before we submit anything. Not after a kiss or after the arrangement feels real. Before the application.”
Amy’s fingers stopped against the coffee sleeve. “You would stop coaching me.”
“I would lose edit access and stop controlling mileage, pace, assessments, and return-to-run decisions. I could join only the runs Miguel designates. Rose handles physical-therapy concerns; everything else goes to the appropriate physician.”
“You would give up a paying client.”
“Blake can reassign the package hours. I lose control of the plan, not my job.”
Saying it cost more than I expected. Coaching Amy had become the best part of my week. That was another reason the transfer had to happen before either of us could pretend the conflict was theoretical.
“Blake would know?” she asked.
“That I am entering with a former client, that Miguel has full authority, and that the conflict form is documented. Blake would not know the relationship began as an arrangement unless disclosure became necessary.”
“So we would still be lying about eligibility.”
“Yes.”
“But not allowing the lie to govern my training.”
“Correct.”
Amy looked down at the application.
“You discussed this with Rose?”
“The structure. Not your answer.”
“She objected.”