Chapter Ten Six Miles and Pancakes #3
“She taught me that preparation was kindness.”
That explained more than any assessment. Amy did not plan because she wanted power. She planned because someone had once made order feel like care.
“She sounds great,” I said.
“She was.”
“Past tense?”
“Six years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Amy touched the watch.
“She would have hated the marathon.”
I laughed.
“She sounds smart.”
“She believed running was appropriate only when chased.”
“Also smart.”
The conversation shifted to safer stories: family, Rose’s hatred of scented candles, and my accidental appearance in a children’s dance recital involving umbrellas. Amy’s real laugh filled the booth. I watched the thing I kept trying to earn.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking.”
“I am.”
Her laughter faded. The awareness returned. No audience. No stage. No reason to perform. Amy’s gaze moved to my mouth. Level Three. Restricted. The server arrived with the check. Amy looked away. I breathed again.
At ten thirty, Amy yawned, denied yawning, and rested her head against the booth.
“We should leave.”
“I am not moving.”
The lights softened the tired edges of her face.
“If I had stopped at five, would you have been disappointed?”
“No.”
“What if I quit the marathon?”
“I would ask why. If it was not right for you, I would support you.”
“Even if Evelyn thought she was right?”
“I do not care what Evelyn thinks.”
“I do.”
“That will take time.”
Her eyes closed and stayed closed.
“Amy?”
No response. She had fallen asleep. Sitting upright. I smiled before I could stop. The server passed and looked at us.
“Long day?”
“Six miles.”
She nodded as though that explained everything. Maybe it did. I moved from the opposite side of the booth to sit beside Amy. The vinyl seat shifted. Her eyes opened slightly.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t fall.”
“I do not fall this often.”
“Historical data.”
She made a quiet sound and leaned against me.
Her head settled on my shoulder. The contact became natural before either of us agreed to it.
I stayed still. Her hair brushed my neck.
Her hand rested near mine on the seat. This was more intimate than the public kiss.
Not physically. Emotionally. Amy trusted me enough to sleep.
The trust made me handle my phone carefully when I took it out.
I opened the camera. The image showed Amy sleeping against my shoulder, hair loose, face peaceful.
I took the picture and checked the result.
Blake would have loved it. The challenge account would have exploded.
The public would have called it romantic.
I did not post it. I saved it to a private folder.
Some things did not belong to the performance.
At eleven forty-three, Amy woke. She blinked at the diner. Then at me.
“Did I fall asleep?”
“No.”
She sat upright.
“You lie badly.”
“Only to you.”
The crosswalk phrase returned. Amy waited. I could have turned it into a joke. I did not.
“I took a picture,” I said.
Her expression sharpened.
“Delete it.”
“I will if you want.”
“Did you post it?”
“No.”
“Send it to anyone?”
“No.”
“Why take it?”
Because you looked safe. Because I wanted proof of a moment no one else had. Because my camera roll had become full of small things that involved her.
“You looked peaceful,” I said.
Amy held out her hand.
“Let me see.”
I gave her the phone. She studied the photo, and the line between her brows eased.
“I look tired.”
“You ran six miles.”
“My hair is uneven.”
“Scandal.”
She kept looking. Then she handed the phone back.
“You can keep it.”
The permission affected me more than it should have.
“Private,” she added.
“Private.”
We left the diner. Outside, the streets were nearly empty. The city had quieted into traffic lights and distant music. Amy stood beside me while I ordered a car.
“Sunday,” she said.
“Family dinner.”
“We tell Gloria first.”
“Yes.”
“And Lola?”
“We tell her the relationship is complicated.”
A car moved through the intersection, its tires whispering over the pavement. Amy watched it pass instead of looking at me.
“She is eight.”
“She likes complications. She watches detective shows.”
“We tell her we are participating in a pretend competition.”
“And that we’re friends?”
Amy held my gaze.
“Are we?”
It hurt because I wanted more than any safe answer could contain.
“Yes,” I said.
“Friends.”
The car arrived. I opened the rear door. Amy stopped before getting in.
“Thank you.”
“For pancakes?”
“For staying.”
Her gratitude landed hard.
“Always,” I almost said.
The promise would have been too large. Too easy to break.
Instead, I said, “You’re welcome.”
Amy got into the car. I watched until it disappeared.
Then I walked home beneath streetlights, thinking about the photograph in my phone.
Thinking about six miles. Thinking about rule six.
Neither party will develop genuine romantic feelings.
The problem was no longer that the rule might be broken.
The problem was that I did not know when it had happened.