She blinks and rubs her eyes.. "What?"
"Running. With me. Now."
She leans against the door frame and yawns. "It's Sunday. And I'm asleep. And what makes you think I like to run?"
"I somehow knew you'd say that, so let's make a deal. I'll buy you croissants. The good ones from the French bakery on Fifth. I once heard you recommending them to Roberta."
Her expression changes instantly, more alert and excited, but still quite suspicious. "The chocolate ones and the one with pistachio cream?"
"However many you want. All the flavors if you can manage."
She considers this, eyes narrowing. "You're bribing me with baked goods to wake up at an ungodly hour and engage in physical torture."
"Yes."
"God, why?" She sighs dramatically. "Fine. Give me five minutes."
The door closes. I hear more thumping and what sounds like Croissant meowing in protest. Ten minutes later, she emerges in black leggings, a gray hoodie, and running shoes that look brand new and not broken in.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she says, closing her door. "Croissant is judging me so hard right now. And how ironic is it that the only way I'm running is the promise of good pastry?"
"You'll survive."
"Bold assumption."
Twenty minutes into the run, I know two things: Emily is the worst runner I've ever seen, and I find it unexpectedly endearing. She basically alternates glaring at me, whining, and dragging herself.
"This is torture." She's bent double at the park's halfway point. "I think my lungs are collapsing, and my ankles are at their breaking point. My stomach also feels like I've been repeatedly punched. "
"They're not."
"How do you know? Are you a doctor?"
"No."
"Then you can't be sure." She straightens up, sweat dotting her forehead, and jabs an accusing finger at me. "If I die, tell Croissant I love him. And that you forced me to do this."
I slow my pace to match hers, which is barely above a power walk. Under normal circumstances, this would frustrate me since I maintain a seven-minute mile pace and hate disruptions. Today, I don't care. I’m shuffling… and loving it.
"You're enjoying my suffering, Alex. I can feel it."
"A little."
She tries to glare but eventually rolls her eyes. "At least you admit it. Honesty is a green flag." As we round the bend past the small lake, she stops completely. "I can't. I'm dying. Tell Croissant I love him."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
I hold out my hand, and she looks at it suspiciously before taking it. Her palm is small against mine, fingers cool despite her exertion.
"Three more minutes. Then we get croissants."
"Croissants plural? As in, more than one?"
"As many as you want."
She squeezes my hand. "Okay, you know what? On second thought, I can do this."
