“You are.” She gave him a kiss. “Except I’m tired just looking at you.” She licked his faint salt taste from her lip. “How many miles this time?”

“Ten.” He took another swig of water. She’d bought Matthew his hydration belt—an awkward transaction that should have been conducted online, because when the JackRabbit salesman had used the term hydration belt she’d cracked up inappropriately (not an unusual occurrence during that period) and he’d clearly taken offense. She’d bought this gift over a year ago in an attempt toward thoughtfulness, toward acting like the kind of woman to whom Matthew might want to stay married. She hadn’t imagined his running habit would stick. This seemed ridiculous now. Equally ridiculous was how she almost hadn’t bought the hydration belt because she hadn’t wanted it to seem as if she were pressuring him to keep up the running. He’d never been in shape. He was the big, tall guy who could get away with never exercising. Between the two of them—and granted this wasn’t saying terribly much—she’d always been the athlete.

“Do you feel like Superman?”

He had crow’s-feet fanning his eyes when he smiled. He’d always had them, even when he was twenty-two. “I’m creaky.”

“Well, I’m impressed.” Her gaze wandered inside the park, scanning the meadow, the hill. “I really am.”

“Thanks.” He twisted to crack his back. He winced before saying, “So tell me about Caroline.”

“I will.”

Had the Wilderness class come out of the park yet? Had the kids been carrying those orange fishing rods, or compasses, or assorted unwieldy sticks? That’s what she wanted to ask. Whether he ran six miles or twenty, it was all the same. Matthew had asked about Caroline. Did he, too, have another, truer question?

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You keep looking into the park.”

“I don’t.”

“You were just looking into the park.”

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the fact that you were looking over my shoulder in that direction.” He was still smiling. “You’re being really cagey.”

“Cagey?” She laughed a little. “I’m being cagey? What, like I’m actually waiting for someone else? I came here to meet someone who isn’t you, even though I knew you’d be right in this very spot?” She laughed, in a forced way, she knew, but it was still laughter. Their arguments were mostly over strange looks, a funny, weird expression that might pass across his face or hers. They could go back and forth about a sideways glance. It was oppressive. And inane.

“Let’s stop this,” she said.

“I’m stopping.”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m going.”