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Dressed in leggings and a tank, I did a few quick stretches to loosen my calves and get my shins ready for the pavement, then grabbed my phone and keys and headed for the door.

Outside, the morning air was cooler than I’d expected. I could’ve used a jacket, but the run would warm me up soon enough. I started off at an easy pace, jogging down our brownstone-lined block under a canopy of trees. The neighborhood was already so awake. A dog walker with three big poodles tugged them aside by the leashes so I could pass. A dad in a suit pushed a stroller one-handed while scrolling his phone with the other. Two women in oversized sunglasses power-walked toward me, moving almost as fast as my jog. This route was busy. Lived-in. Nothing like back home. In Montana, my morning run meant open space for miles and air that smelled like pine and earth, not espresso and car exhaust. I could go ten minutes without seeing another person, sometimes longer. Here, I couldn’t go ten steps without passing someone.

I turned the corner and picked up my pace, weaving around people on the sidewalk. There was something about the energy of Brooklyn, the constant motion and the hum of life happening all around me, that made it easier not to think.

Maybe that was the trick.

Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just keep moving.

I ran for more than an hour, working up a decent sweat. By the time I made it back to the brownstone, my lungs were burning and my legs felt heavy. I slowed to a walk at the stoop, taking a minute to catch my breath. But I felt good. Better than I had in days. I tried not to think too deeply about the reason and allowed myself to chalk it up to endorphins from the run.

Inside, the building was quiet, and the air conditioning was a welcome relief. I pushed through the vestibule doors and stepped into the entry hall just as a voice called out from the ground-floor apartment.

“Rafe? Is that you?”

The door was partially open. I knocked lightly and called from the hallway. “No, it’s me, Talia. Is everything okay, Mrs. Rivers?”

“Oh, hi, sweetheart. I hate to be a bother, but do you think you could help me for a minute? I’ve been calling my nephew, but he must not be home.”

I pushed open the door. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

Mrs. Rivers looked flustered. Her wheelchair sat wedged between the coffee table and the couch.

“I’m stuck. Would you mind pulling the table out a few inches? Rafe vacuumed yesterday. He must’ve moved it closer to the couch, and now my wheel’s jammed, and I can’t go forward or backward.”

“Of course.” I stepped in and slid the coffee table out, making sure she had plenty of room.

She maneuvered herself free and sighed. “Thank you so much. I can’t wait to get out of this damn chair.”

“Is that happening soon?”

“I have a countdown on my calendar.”

I smiled, glancing at her cast propped up on the footrest. “I don’t blame you. I can’t even put a Band-Aid on my finger without wanting to rip it off after an hour.”

She chuckled. “Sadly, I’m used to the casts. It’s the chair I’ll never get used to. I hate being so dependent on other people.”

“I think I’m getting used to the opposite—not being dependent on anyone.” I shrugged. “It’s the first time I’m living on my own. Well, not exactly on my own. I’m living with Calder, obviously. But he hasn’t been around much, and now he’s gone for a week on a business trip.”

“Ah…” She nodded knowingly. “That’s a big adjustment.”

“It is.”

“Moving in with someone changes things. I still remember when my Frederick and I got our first apartment—a studio barely big enough for one, let alone two.” She looked off with a nostalgic smile. “We fought a lot that first year, learning to adjust to each other and figuring out how to share space.”

“But it got better?” I asked.

“It did. We had to learn to give and take, pick and choose our battles. That’s what marriage is about.”

My first week and a half with Calder flashed through my mind. It had been easy on the surface. No fights. No tension. But beneath that…

“We haven’t really fought,” I said quietly.

“Sometimes fighting is okay. It means you’re learning boundaries, figuring out what you’re willing to compromise on and what you’re not.”

I swallowed. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe the reason Calder and I hadn’t fought was because I’d been the one doing all the compromising—where we’d live, how we spent our time, even what we watched on TV at night. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t been more vocal on some of the small stuff.

“I guess…I just don’t want to rock the boat,” I said.