“A coworker of mine,” said Peter. “And a friend. Her name is Abigail.”

“Abigail,” said Iggie thoughtfully. “Babealicious, isn’t she?”

Fortunately, he was still gazing at Abigail and Luisa, so he didn’t notice Hilary glance over at me and mouth “babealicious” or Peter again making a choking noise as he struggled not to laugh.

I reminded myself of the fees Winslow, Brown would generate if Iggie chose the firm to handle the Igobe IPO and the much-needed momentum those fees would generate on my own path to a Winslow, Brown partnership.

“She certainly is,” I said.

3

The next morning Peter made me go running.

“That’s what we always do on Sundays in San Francisco,” he said. “A long run along the water and then a big brunch.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I lied, except about the brunch part. “There’s nothing I would rather do this morning. If only I’d remembered to bring my workout clothes. Darn. What a shame.”

“I packed your stuff for you.”

“You did?”

He smiled in a way that would have been smug if he had been anyone else. “I had a feeling you might forget.”

Peter exercised because he enjoyed it. I exercised because I enjoyed fitting into my clothes. “Even my sneakers?” I asked.

“Even your sneakers,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Come on, it will be fun.”

“How are you defining fun?”

Ten minutes later, we descended the stairs dressed in shorts, T-shirts and running shoes and found Peter’s parents in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Judging by their attire and healthy glow, they’d already been for their own run. I thanked them again for the party, which hadn’t wound down until after midnight.

“It was such a treat to finally meet your family, Rachel. I wish they could have stayed longer,” Susan said.

The various Benjamins had been among the last to leave the previous evening, and they had gotten along beautifully with the Forrests and their friends, but by my calculations they were now well on their way to the airport, and I considered this excellent timing. While I loved my family, between the joint family dinner on Friday night, a joint family outing yesterday to the Asian Art Museum, and then the party, there had been more than enough opportunities for somebody to dredge up a mortifying tidbit from my past. And since my past was rife with mortifying tidbits, I was amazed to have made it through all of these events safely-prolonging the interaction further would have been courting disaster. But I didn’t mention any of that. “They really liked meeting you, too,” I said instead.

“Are you two going for a run?” Susan asked.

“Yep,” said Peter, reaching into the refrigerator and taking out a couple of bottles of water. He held one out to me, but I shook my head, and he exchanged it for a Diet Coke. I opened the can with pleased anticipation. There was nothing quite like the day’s first hit.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have some coffee, dear? Or orange juice?” Susan asked me.

“Oh, um, thank you, but I like soda in the morning.” In fact, morning was my favorite time to drink soda, although I also enjoyed it in the afternoon and evening.

“Peter, honey, don’t you think Rachel might want a glass? Rachel, dear, don’t you want a glass?”

“Rachel prefers it out of the can, Mom,” said Peter. I did prefer it out of the can. There was something about the way the carbonation and aluminum interacted that made it especially tasty.

“Are you sure, dear?” The perplexed look on Susan’s face reminded me that my habits might seem a little strange to the uninitiated.

“You know, I will have a glass. Thanks,” I said.

Peter stared at me, the perplexed look on his face an exact replica of his mother’s, but he reached into a cupboard and handed me a glass. I poured out the soda and drank it down.

“We’ll be back in an hour or so,” Peter told his parents.

“An hour?” I said under my breath.

“Have fun,” Susan said. “We’ll have brunch ready when you get back.” Charles raised his coffee cup in our direction without glancing up from the paper.

Peter ushered me out the front door. “Ready?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said, but he took my hand anyway and began pulling me along the street.

“Is this pace okay?” he called over his shoulder.

“Uh-huh,” I said, and it was for a bit, since the first part was all downhill. Peter even trusted me to keep moving once he let go of my hand. The next part along the water was flat and picturesque with the light glinting off the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, and for a few minutes I felt an inspiring camaraderie with the other runners on the path. But that quickly dissipated.

“Look,” said Peter, slowing his pace to accommodate my own, which had started to lag. He pointed to some slippery animals sitting on rocks in the water. They were seals or sea lions, or maybe even walruses, but I was too winded to ask, much less care, nor did he seem to notice I wasn’t holding up my end of the conversation as he pointed out other landmarks. By the time we finally turned back I’d been evaluating alternative modes of revenge for a good ten minutes, and when we found ourselves at the bottom of the Lyon Street steps, I had no choice but to draw the line. In truth, there was no conscious decision. My feet simply stopped.

“No,” I wheezed.

“No what?” Peter asked, still jogging in place as I rested my hands on my knees and struggled to feed air into my burning lungs.

“No, I’m not running up those.”

“We’re almost home. You’ll feel great afterward.” I scowled at his chipper tone.

Two women with legs the size of tree trunks sprinted by us and charged up the steps. “Marathons weren’t enough of a challenge, so I started training for an iron man,” one was saying to the other.

“My first iron man was a total rush,” the other replied.

“I’ll meet you at the top,” I said to Peter.

He ran up and down the steps several times as I made my way up them just once. “That’s obnoxious,” I told him as he pranced by me yet again, but he pretended not to hear. He was stretching when I eventually crested the final flight.

“Is this your passive-aggressive way of trying to get me to break up with you?” I asked as we walked the remaining distance to his parents’ house. Or, to be more accurate, as Peter walked and I limped.

“You loved every second.”

“If that was love, you should have some serious misgivings when I say I love you.”

“You know, you’d probably feel better if you hydrated before you ran.”

“I did hydrate.”

“Rachel. Diet Coke is not hydration.”

“You say tomato.”

“Maybe you should admit it. You have a problem.”

“I don’t have a problem. What’s my problem?” I asked.

“You’re addicted to Diet Coke.”

“Yes, but it’s not a problem.” We’d reached the house, and I contemplated the steps leading up to the front door. They seemed steeper than they had the day before. A bald man passed by walking a Great Dane, and Spot appeared at the bay window and started to bark, but the Great Dane trotted on, oblivious.

“You couldn’t last two days without Diet Coke,” said Peter.

“Why would I want to?”

“What if I dared you?”

I looked up at him and was alarmed to see he wasn’t joking. “That’s not fair,” I said. Peter knew how I felt about dares-specifically, that you didn’t turn them down unless you were comfortable being branded a wuss.

“You mean, you’re turning down a dare?”

I considered my options. I didn’t really have any, given that I didn’t want anyone to think I was a wuss, at least not about something like this. “No,” I said reluctantly, “I’m not turning down a dare.”

“Forty-eight hours, then. No Diet Coke. In fact, how about no caffeine?”

I gasped. “No caffeine?”