Chapter Eleven The Couple’s Shopping Date #2
“Other foot,” she said.
Her voice had changed. I lifted it. She repeated the process. My pulse felt inappropriate for seated footwear.
“Stand,” she said.
I did. The shoes felt comfortable. Dani pressed one finger between the heel and collar.
“Good.”
The salesperson returned.
“Try the treadmill.”
I jogged for several minutes. The shoes were noticeably better than the model I had chosen. I disliked this. Dani knew. Her smile grew as I stepped off.
“Well?”
“They are acceptable.”
“Price.”
“They are comfortable.”
“More comfortable than your spreadsheet shoes?”
“The spreadsheet did not select a shoe.”
“The spreadsheet wanted the gray ones.”
“The gray ones had strong durability.”
Dani turned on the camera.
“Amy has learned that feet are not a depreciation schedule.”
I faced the lens.
“The coral shoes provided greater immediate comfort. Long-term performance remains unknown.”
“She loves them.”
“I do not love objects.”
“Geraldine is devastated.”
Dani placed the shoes in the basket. The sponsor credit would cover most of them.
“What are we choosing for you?” I asked.
“I have everything.”
“Your hydration belt has a torn zipper and lost your keys under Geraldine.”
“Eventually found.”
I chose a lightweight replacement with secure pockets and minimal bounce. Dani objected to the price until I pointed out the sponsor credit required one item each. When she fastened it, her sweatshirt lifted and exposed a line of skin I studied the instruction card to avoid.
“Professional assessment?” she asked.
“Functional.”
“Personal?”
“It looks good.”
“Scale?”
“Nine.”
She grinned and tested it on the upstairs track, turning the jog into an advertisement until she nearly collided with a display. I caught her hand.
“Got me,” she said.
The treadmill memory arrived in a rush. I released her.
“The belt is suitable.”
In apparel, Dani proposed reflective lightning bolts, metallic shorts, and a visor visible from space before holding up fitted blue running shorts.
“Try these.”
“I have sufficient shorts.”
“These match the shirt.”
“That is not a reason.”
“Romantic presentation.”
“We are not required to match during ordinary training.”
“You don’t want to know how they fit?”
“No.”
Dani’s smile said she did not believe me. The changing rooms stood along the back wall. I should have refused. Instead, I took the shorts.
“For sizing data.”
“Of course.”
I entered the stall. The shorts fit more closely than my current running clothes, but they were comfortable and practical.
The color matched the top. In the mirror, I looked like a runner—not someone disguised as one or trying to prove she belonged in a gym.
A runner. The realization held me for several seconds. Dani knocked lightly.
“You alive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need emotional support?”
“No.”
“Zipper assistance?”
“There is no zipper.”
“Then why is this taking so long?”
I opened the door. Dani stopped speaking. The effect was satisfying. Her gaze moved over me and returned to my face. She swallowed.
“Well?” I asked.
My voice sounded calmer than I was. Dani opened her mouth, then closed it. I had made her speechless during yoga. I was learning how.
“The shorts,” I prompted.
“Good.”
“How good?”
She looked at the ceiling.
“Unfair.”
“That is not a number.”
“Eleven.”
“Out of ten?”
“Price.”
I smiled. Dani stared at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I am requesting product feedback.”
“You’re weaponizing the blue outfit.”
“That would be an inefficient weapon.”
“You have no idea.”
The changing room attendant smiled from behind the counter. Dani became intensely interested in a rack of socks.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“For fit.”
“I can assess the fit.”
“I understand technical clothing.”
I kept one hand on the curtain, suddenly aware of how little fabric separated us.
“Not during fake-girlfriend shopping.”
“Then I’m your girlfriend.”
“Fake.”
“Still visually qualified.”
I returned to the stall before I made another reckless decision.
Through the door, Dani said, “Get the shorts.”
“They exceed the sponsor credit.”
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Her please was soft, not flirtatious. I changed back into my jeans. When I exited, Dani held the shorts folded over one arm.
“I can buy my own clothes,” I said.
“I understand.”
“Then why?”
“Because you looked happy.”
I stopped.
“I looked at the mirror,” she continued. “You looked happy before you noticed me.”
I refolded the waistband.
“I was evaluating the outfit.”
“You looked like you saw yourself differently.”
Dani understood too much. It was one of the things I liked about her. That thought arrived fully formed. I did not reject it fast enough.
“You don’t have to buy them,” I said.
“I want to.”
“It is outside the assignment.”
“Yes. This is not a date.”
“Yes.”
Her agreement sounded like disappointment. I examined the folded shorts.
“Then I will buy dinner after the challenge event.”
Dani’s head came up.
“Dinner?”
“To maintain balance.”
“Financial balance?”
“Yes.”
“Not romantic balance?”
I adjusted the folded shirt in my hands. Dani’s questions were playful; my pulse was not.
“No.”
“Public location?”
“Yes.”
“Clear menu information?”
“Yes.”
Dani smiled.
“Deal.”
We filmed the final segment near the checkout. I held the coral shoes. Dani wore the hydration belt.
“The shoes were selected because Dani pays attention to my movement rather than relying exclusively on product data,” I said to the camera.
Dani placed one hand over her heart.
“That is the nicest thing she has ever said to me.”
“I selected the belt because Dani takes care of everyone else’s needs and frequently ignores preventable problems in her own equipment.”
Her smile softened. The camera captured it. Dani looked into the lens.
“I picked Amy’s shoes because she’s learning that comfort isn’t laziness and changing a plan isn’t failure.”
The store noise faded around me. She continued.
“And I picked the blue shorts because she should see herself the way I see her.”
My grip tightened on the shoe box. This was not part of the script.
“How do you see her?” the salesperson asked from behind the camera.
Dani’s attention settled on me.
“Strong,” she said. “Brave. And a lot brighter than she lets herself be.”
Her answer exposed how badly I wanted it. I should have redirected. Made a joke. Mentioned the scoring criteria.
Instead, I said, “You were only supposed to explain the product.”
“I did.”
The salesperson turned off the camera. For several seconds, neither of us moved.
“Too much?” Dani asked quietly.
“No.”
“Truth?”
“No.”
I could not say more in the store. I bought the shoes. Dani bought the shorts. We walked outside carrying matching sponsor bags. The evening had turned warm. People moved along the riverfront beneath strings of restaurant lights. An older woman passing with a small terrier smiled at us.
“You make a beautiful couple,” she said.
Dani and I stopped. The woman continued walking before either of us answered. The terrier looked back. I studied the bags while Dani studied me.
“We should have corrected her,” I said.
“Probably.”
“We didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Dani adjusted the handles of her bags.
“It felt rude.”
“That is not the reason.”
“No.”
I waited. She did not answer. I understood because I did not have one either. We walked toward the bus stop. Our shoulders brushed. Neither of us moved away.
The video scored first in personal insight and second in romantic presentation. Blake sent us the results at eleven that night. Beneath the score was a comment from the sponsor:
Their affection feels unusually genuine.
I read the comment several times, then opened the private folder containing the launch kiss. I did not play the video. The frozen first frame was enough: Dani turning toward me, my face already answering. The phone buzzed. A message from Dani.
You kept the shoes?
Yes.
And the shorts?
I waited before answering.
Yes.
Three dots appeared.
Wear them tomorrow?
I typed:
No.
Then:
Friday.
Her reply was immediate.
I’ll survive until then. Maybe.
I placed the phone down. The blue shorts lay folded on the chair beside my bed. A gift from my fake girlfriend. Purchased because she had seen me recognize myself. The situation had become unmanageable. For the first time, I did not open a spreadsheet.