I assumed he was making coffee.
Then the bathroom door opened.
He walked out slowly, pressing two fingers against his temple.
“Claire, I don’t think I can do the race.”
I sat up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Terrible headache.”
“How terrible?”
He closed the curtains.
“Really bad. Even the light is bothering me.”
I immediately felt disappointed.
But I also felt guilty for being disappointed.
If Daniel was genuinely ill, the race was hardly the most important thing.
“Do you want me to get you some medication?”
“I already took something.”
“Should I stay home?”
He shook his head.
“No. You’ve trained for this. You should go.”
I looked toward the chair where I’d prepared our clothes.
His running shirt and other things were gone.
At the time, I assumed he’d taken them into the bathroom before deciding he felt too unwell to participate.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”
