At home, I rush for the bathroom.
I peel my damp, sweaty clothes off and let them fall to the tile floor. My panties come off last.
Kyle’s laughing voice rings in my mind. “I don’t care what kind of underwear you wear as long as I can get them off you.”
Even so, I always wore cute lacy sets anytime I knew we’d be together. I wanted to feel pretty for him.
I look down at the plain white panties I wore today. They’re good for running—they keep wedgies at bay—but they certainly don’t make me feel pretty. They make me feel gross. I am gross. What I did today was skanky and selfish.
I wanted to feel something new, to connect with someone, but all I feel is more confused. And scared. Tired. More alone than when I go to the drive-in by myself.
I turn the shower nozzle to ice cold and climb in. Water rains down on me and I pray it will make me clean. “Forgive me,” I whisper.
Guilt changes as you get older. I cheated on a spelling test when I was eight and beat myself up over it for months. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I kept imagining the correct answer was still written on my hand in black ink. Then, freshman year, Kyle touched me down there for the first time on the school bus on our way back from a field trip to the Cumberland Science Museum. He draped his jacket over my lap, unzipped my jeans, and made me feel like a totally new girl. It was exciting until I got off the bus and started freaking out mentally. Was Kelsey looking at me funny? What if someone saw us? What if a rumor went around and people at school made fun of me? What if it got back to Nick? What if he told Mom? What did it say about me that I let my boyfriend touch me in a public place? Was I dirty?
There are levels of guilt, and today I entered the big leagues.
I lean my head against the shower tile as water pounds my back.
I doubted I’d stay single forever. I mean, I want to have kids one day, and that generally requires a partner, but I never thought I’d nearly have sex with a stranger. And that I’d do it on the trail where I’m training to honor my boyfriend.
I turn the water up as hot as it will go, burning my skin scarlet red.
Today’s run forced the thoughts out of my head, but they’re screaming back now. Jeremiah. Kyle. I wish I could go back in time to that Sunday night. Silent sobs begin to shake my body.
When I first heard, I couldn’t sit still. Scrubbed the dishes. Poured Halloween candy into a dish. But an hour later the shock wore off and I cried hysterically. Mom and Nick took turns holding me, to rock me to sleep. But the sleep didn’t come.
To get through the funeral, Nick gave me a tiny white pill. It calmed me down enough to sit through the service and hold Mrs. Crocker’s hand as they flashed pictures of Kyle on the wall. I’ll never forget how his six-year-old brother Isaac asked his father why I was crying so bad, and his father choked out, “Because she’s never gonna see Kyle again.” He was too young to understand what was happening, and the more I thought about it, I didn’t understand it either.
Nick never told me what the pill was exactly or where he got it. As homecoming and Thanksgiving came and went, I begged him for another tiny white pill because I was so sick of crying. But he said it was a one-time deal. That winter, every time tears filled my eyes, they leaked into my throat and caused a cold. I was sick from November to January. Then I decided I wasn’t going to cry anymore. I was too angry. Angry at Kyle for leaving me here all alone, for not taking me with him. Angry at the universe for not hearing my pleas: Take me, not him. If I can just have him back, I’ll say yes this time. Yes, I’ll marry you.
Angry I didn’t get to say good-bye.
Today is the first day I’ve truly cried since. I feel guilty for having shivers when Jeremiah smiled at me. I like how he took care of my blister. Made me laugh. Mostly I loved that glimmer of hope I felt for just a second.
That second before I remembered Kyle would still be here if I hadn’t refused him.
#
Part II
The Last Summer
#
Cross-Training
Four Months Until the Music City Marathon
“Today, I want y’all to do the entire run without walking.”
At this announcement, a few people gasp and two women who always run together give each other looks. Matt is giving our team instructions for today’s nine-mile run by Marks Creek. Sure, we’ve gone that far before, but we were allowed to walk. Even so, an older man quit our team after the ten-mile training session. It’s getting more and more intense.
“I can run that far as long as I’m chasing him,” the lady next to me mutters.
I laugh. We’ve been running on Matt’s team for three months, but I didn’t gather the courage to ask her name until a couple weeks ago. It’s Liza, and she’s definitely older than Matt. I don’t think she really like likes him. She just likes looking at him. Who wouldn’t?
Matt makes us stretch and drink another cup of water before heading onto the trail. I start the run easy and gradually increase my speed as I go along. Having cool weather in June is weird, but I’m grateful for the breeze. I’m also grateful I took a few ibuprofen before the run started. I’ve found my legs don’t hurt as badly when I take it.
When I hit the 4.5-mile marker, Matt’s assistant Bridget passes me lemon Gatorade without asking. After three months of training, she knows my preferred flavor. “Are you feeling okay, Annie?”
I work to get my breathing under control. “Yeah.”
“Good. Get going.”
“I’m not allowed to rest while I have my d-drink?”
She smiles. “Nope. Matt wants you to learn how to run and carry a cup at the same time. You’ll be doing that during the race. Just throw the cup away when you see a trash can.”
Grumbling, I hop back on the trail, finish the drink, and toss my paper cup. Check my watch. Think about my foot placement. Swing my arms. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
This is the first time we’ve run this route, the Cumberland Bicentennial Trail. When I told Mom where today’s session was, she said, “I’ve heard the spring dogwoods over there are beautiful.” My mother does know a lot about plants even though she has a black thumb. And she was right about how gorgeous this trail is: pink and white flowers are everywhere. It’s like Valentine’s Day exploded.
Soon I don’t have anything else to concentrate on. So I think about the real reason today’s run is freaking me out. I haven’t seen Jeremiah yet. And he didn’t call.
After last week’s run, after we hooked up, Jeremiah waited for me by my car. My thoughts were jumbled like multicolored gumballs in a jar, but I was coherent enough to give him my phone number when he asked for it. He gazed around the parking lot before punching the number into his cell. Was he looking to make sure Matt didn’t notice? His brother was dead serious about Jeremiah not hooking up with his clients. But he did it anyway.
At the time, I figured he was interested, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but it turns out it didn’t matter. Why ask for a girl’s number if you aren’t going to use it? Did he ask because he felt some sort of obligation? Or because he felt guilty? Did his brother find out and get pissed? Is that why he didn’t call? I’m pissed at myself for caring. I’m not sure why I do. Probably to give myself a reason not to feel so skanky.
“Gah!” I say to myself.
“What’s up?” a voice says. I nearly say the corny joke Kyle always said in response to What’s up?
Helicopters! he’d blurt.
When I turn to find Liza jogging up next to me, I’m really glad I didn’t say Helicopters!
“Did you hurt yourself?” she asks.
“Nah. Just talking to myself.”
She laughs and nods. “Running definitely gives you lots of time alone with your thoughts. I’m sure I’ll be talking to myself soon.”
For the past three months, I’ve had a hard time maintaining the same pace as other people on my team. Either they’re too slow for me or I’m too slow for them, but today Liza and I manage to stay together for several minutes. It would be nice if I had company for today’s final four miles. It would be nice if I didn’t have to run the entire marathon alone.
“How old are you?” Liza asks.
“Eighteen.”
“You seem older,” she says, looking me over. “You’re very mature.”
“Oh yeah?”
“My older sister has a couple of teen girls. I went to their house for Mother’s Day a few weeks ago, and my nieces giggled for an hour about absolutely nothing.”
When I went shopping at the Galleria with the girls a few weeks ago, we ate a snack at the cookie store, where Vanessa and Savannah giggled for like ten straight minutes about these cookies with Justin Bieber’s face on them. I still don’t know what was so funny about that.
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” I ask.
“Thirty-two,” she says with a sigh.
“You seem younger.” That makes her smile. She’s very glamorous, with brown curls, full lips, and fancy sunglasses specifically for running. I wanted a pair of those, but I had to decide between them and gas for my car.
“So why are you running a marathon?” Liza asks. “You’re the youngest person on our team by a long shot.”
I look at her sideways and pull a deep breath. The only person who knows why I’m here is Matt—Coach Woods told him—and I want to keep it that way. When I don’t say anything, I guess she takes a hint because she changes the subject.
“I just moved to Nashville in January. I’m from New York.”
I’ve never driven that far north before. “Wow, that’s a big move.”
“My law firm transferred me down here for a major case.”
“And you have time to run?”
She glances over for a sec, then averts her eyes. “I don’t really know anybody except people at work. I needed to get back in shape and I wanted a fun way to meet people, so here I am.” She wipes sweat off her forehead. “But it’s getting harder and harder to make the time for these long runs. Last weekend, I was so pooped after that ten miler that I just went home and watched TV the rest of the day. I didn’t do any work. I better be careful or I’ll lose my case.”
“Running d-does take up a lot of time.”
“You know what the worst part was, Annie? I was watching that movie Sweet Home Alabama on TNT. The one with Reese Witherspoon? And I was so tired, I bawled like a baby when Reese gets back together with her sexy ex-husband.”
I smile at Liza. I like her personality, and her rambling keeps me nice and distracted.
She goes on, “I guess the movie got to me—the whole realizing-who-your-true-love-is stuff and all that.” Liza suddenly goes really quiet, and I get the feeling she has more to say. “The training is good. I’m finding that it’s healthy for me to get away from the office. It clears my thoughts.”
“Running does that for me too.”
Liza chatters on about the case her law firm transferred her for. It’s a huge sexual harassment lawsuit filed by a bunch of women at a nationwide communications company.
“I can’t discuss the case specifically,” she starts, “but let me tell you, Annie, I never thought I’d have to use the word penis so much.”
She says it matter-of-factly, and it occurs to me that she wouldn’t be telling me about her job unless she thought I was mature enough to hear it. I smile.
“Hello,” a voice says. I look over my shoulder to find Andrew, this tall, middle-aged guy on our team. Instead of wearing a fanny pack, like Liza, or a CamelBak, like me, he carries a thick, plastic water bottle in his hand. He falls into step beside us.
“You’re gonna get in trouble with Matt for wearing those headphones,” I tease.
“Why are all you ladies so into him? Matt says this, Matt says that,” Andrew jokes.
“Um, have you seen him?” Liza asks.
“He’s not my type,” Andrew says. “I’m into short, curly-haired brunettes.”
God, is he hitting on her right in front of me? She raises her eyebrows at me, and I shrug. He’s okay looking, I guess, for somebody who could be my dad.
Matt jogs up next to us. Andrew yanks his headphones out, hides them under his shirt, and Matt smirks and shakes his head.
“Annie, let’s finish your run together,” Matt says. “We need to talk.”
I gasp. Does he know I hooked up with Jeremiah last week? My body tenses.
“You have to breathe while you’re running or you’ll pass out,” he says.
I remember to breathe.
“C’mon, Annie,” Matt says. “Let’s do some speed bursts. They’ll make you stronger.” He gestures for me to pass Liza and Andrew, and then he shoots off like a bottle rocket. “Let’s go!” he calls, and I sprint after him.
He makes me run at full speed for thirty seconds. Goddamn it makes my legs burn. I’m panting when he lets me return to a jog.
“Control your breathing,” he says.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. Breathe.
“Good,” he says. “Now let’s jog for a bit and then we’ll do some more bursts.”
I give him my I’m-totally-freaked-out face.
“You can do this, Annie. I’m pushing you because I know you can do it.”
After that speed-burst thing, the jogging is easier. But I can’t do another one of those bursts. It hurt!
“Relax your arms and shoulders,” he says, shuffling beside me. “Let that stress go. It’s holding you back.”
I roll my shoulders and shake out my arms.
“So I wanted to talk to you—”
And my arms and shoulders tense right back up.
“This week, you need to do speed bursts every day when you run. And I want you to start adding more peanut butter and eggs to your diet. You’re getting too skinny and you need to eat more as we start doing longer and longer runs.”
Is this what he wanted to talk about? Peanut butter and eggs?!
“I can do that.”
He gives me a smile. I’m guessing he doesn’t know.
“Ready for another sprint?”
I shake my head. He shakes his head back at me. “Let’s go, Annie. Pick it up.”
I jet forward through the dogwood trees. Matt stays with me the entire sprint, urging me on. We do three more sets of bursts. They make my chest ache like crazy—my heart doesn’t like the repeated starts and stops. Somehow I make it to the finish line, and with sweat dripping down my face, I kneel to the ground.
“C’mon, Annie,” Matt says gently. He helps me to my feet. “You did great. Seriously great.”
I roll my shoulders and swallow. I glance around to see if Jeremiah’s here. He’s not.
Matt squeezes my arm. “Relax. Let all that tension out.”
Let go, I tell myself.
Let go.
***
I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up again. <KP>
I had to stop two times on the way home to vomit by the side of the road. I kneel and clutch the toilet seat, breathing deeply. I get sick again. Then again. Why is my stomach so screwed up? Those sprints today made me feel worse than when I first tried to run around the track, when Coach Woods caught me running like a baboon. At least I took those ibuprofen. How bad would I feel if I hadn’t?
The bathroom door creaks open to reveal Mom standing there with a towel. She squats next to me and pats my back as I get sick. The lactic acid built up under my skin makes me feel tingly, and not in the good way. If I can’t even run ten miles without feeling this awful, how in the world will I make it to twenty-six?
“Did you finish your run?” she asks quietly, patting my face with the towel.
“Yeah. Ten miles.”
“Wow. He would’ve been proud of you.”
“Mom, don’t. Not now.”
I feel her tense up next to me, and we both look away. I hear her sniffle. I feel bad for snapping at her, I really do, but does she have to bring Kyle up now?
“I can’t help it,” she says. “I just know he would’ve been amazed. Never talking about him isn’t healthy, sweetie. You need to let it out.”
I lean against the toilet, resting my head on my arm.
“I’ll call Stephanie,” Mom says quietly, brushing the hair out of my face. “I’ll tell her you won’t be at work tonight.”
“No!” I blurt, and then I get sick again. I clutch the toilet and hate my stomach. Hate it. “I need the money.”
“You can’t wait tables like this. People like it when their waitresses are healthy.”
She’s right. If I show up at work all sweaty and red faced and getting sick every two minutes, Stephanie won’t let me wait tables anyway. But if I don’t go in, I’ll lose out on at least $75 in tips. This is my big moneymaker night!
“Mom,” I cry. “I won’t be able to afford my training. I won’t be able to save money for college. I’ve only got like $300 right now.”
She pulls me over into her arms and hugs me. “I know, baby. But you can’t go to work like this. I wish you didn’t put so much pressure on yourself…I wish I could pay for everything. You know I would if I could.”
I know. I know.
***
My alarm clock blares like a fire alarm.
I reach over and slam the snooze button. 5:00 a.m. I got off work at midnight, and now I have to drive to Nashville to go run seven miles? Or as Matt and Jeremiah would call it, a rest day.
The alarm goes off again. There’s no way I’ve snoozed for five minutes already! I groan into my pillow.
The aftermath of last Saturday’s run, in which I got sick for four straight hours and missed work, was so spectacularly bad I haven’t run all week. I skipped my three short runs and didn’t ride my bike to cross-train like I was supposed to.
If I run the seven miles this morning, will I get sick and have to call out of work again? I can’t risk missing work again this week…I won’t be able to pay for training, much less the gas to get to training. And what about supplies for college, like new sheets, towels, books, and stuff to cook with?
My stomach hurt so bad last week…I don’t want to feel that pain again.
When the alarm goes off for the third time, I reach over and turn it off, then burrow back under my sheets.
The next time I wake up, it’s to my phone ringing. The clock says it’s 7:05 a.m. Matt’s name flashes on the screen. Shit. I should’ve called him.
“Hello?” I say groggily, picking the sleep out of my eyes.
“Where are you?” he asks in a rush. “Are you okay?”
“Umm…I’m sorry, I fell back asleep.”
“Are you sick?”
“No…”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then why aren’t you here? Everybody else is.”
That makes me feel ashamed. “Look, I’m sorry. I woke up and wasn’t feeling up to the run.”
“You should’ve called me.”
I yawn into my hand. “You’re right. I will next time.”
“There won’t be a next time if you don’t take training seriously, Annie.”
“What?”
“You don’t show up for my training sessions, I won’t train you. It’s simple as that.”
“Why not? I mean, I’m paying for it.”
A long silence. “Annie, you’re running on my team, under my name. Every single person I’ve trained who’s made it to the day of a race has finished. I’ve helped over two hundred people finish a race. If a client doesn’t take me seriously, I don’t train them. I want to keep my one hundred percent race-day success rate.”
“I get it—”
“Now do you want to tell me what’s wrong? If something’s wrong with the training, we can adjust. If you aren’t feeling good, we can adjust. But you have to talk to me, okay?”
I pull a deep breath and clutch a pillow to my chest. “I’m scared about my stomach. It hurt so bad last week. I got so sick after doing those god-awful speed bursts with you. I threw up like eight times.”
Another pause. “We’ll change up your diet then. Maybe try some toast and English muffins instead of cereal and oatmeal. Maybe we’ll stop giving you Gatorade. The sugar might be making you sick.”
“No! I love my lemon Gatorade. I’ll give up the speed bursts.”
He laughs. “Not a chance. Now, what are you doing tomorrow? You’ve got seven miles to make up.”
***
Why can’t they just leave it be?
“Do we really have to do this?” I ask.
“It’s time,” Connor says quietly, looking at one of Kyle’s track trophies. How can Connor say that so matter-of-factly?
I swallow as I scan the room. I’m kind of pissed at Kyle’s parents for wanting to box up his things. But then I remember how I boxed up the teddy bears and wind chimes he gave me, and I can’t imagine walking past this room every day either, so I kind of get how they feel. Probably the same way I do whenever I drive past the fire station.
Kyle’s younger brother, Connor, who will be a junior at Hundred Oaks this fall, texted me a few days ago and invited me to come check out Kyle’s room, to decide if I want to keep anything.
“I’ll be out in the living room if you need me,” Connor says. The door clicks shut.
I haven’t been in Kyle’s room since September, since before he broke up with me. His alarm clock blinks a red 12:00 over and over. I pick up a worn Titans sweatshirt from the floor and bring it to my nose. His scent is gone. It smells like nothing. I fold the sweatshirt neatly and set it on his unmade bed.
I wipe dust off the framed picture of us from junior prom. I set it on top of the sweatshirt, starting a pile. I pat his stuffed bear’s head. Kyle had Chuck since he was a baby, and now the bear lives on the bookshelf.
For a while, I’d call Kyle’s cell phone just to hear his voicemail message. But then his parents shut it off. I look frantically around the room to see if there’s anything I should take in case his parents don’t recognize its value. If I had been his parents, I would’ve kept that cell phone plan forever.
I find a red Nike headband he wore for track and slip it into my back pocket. If I make it to the marathon, maybe I’ll wear it during the race. Eighties style.
I sit down on his bed and run my fingertips over his pillow. When I lift it to see if it still has Kyle Smell, I discover a small black velvet box. With shaking fingers I open it to find a gold ring with a small diamond. I gasp. The night at the drive-in when Kyle proposed, he didn’t hold a ring out to me. He only said, “Marry me.”
The door creaks open and I look up to find Mrs. Crocker, decked out in her apron, the one spotted with a cherry print. Honestly, I’ve never seen her at home without an apron on—she’s always cooking something—but it doesn’t fit like it used to. It hangs around her loosely.
“Annie, we’re ordering pizza. Do you want to join us for din—” She makes a noise when she sees what I’m holding. She brings her fingers to her mouth. “I’d wondered where he put it. That ring belonged to my grandmother.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Look under the lid.”
I carefully peel the silk lining back and fish out a delicate piece of onion paper. It’s so fine, I worry it might crumble in my hand like a Saltine. I slowly open the paper and discover a note dated 1946: “For Ellen, with all my love, Arthur.”
“That’s great,” I say with a genuine smile, putting the note back where I found it.
“I’m so happy you found the ring.”
I hold the box out to her, and she takes it.
“He would’ve wanted you to keep this,” she adds.
I can’t. I wouldn’t take it when he was alive.
She must sense my hesitation. “I’ll save it for Connor…maybe he’ll want to give it to a girl one day.”
I clear my throat and nod. Mrs. Crocker opens her mouth again to say something, but she shuts it.
Does she blame me?
That’s when Mr. Crocker shows up, wearing a blue T-shirt that reads Williamson County Fire Department. He used to have a full head of blond hair, just like his sons, but now it’s thinned out.
“Hi, Annie,” Mr. Crocker says. “Your mom told us you’re training to run the Country Music Marathon.”
“To finish on Kyle’s behalf.” His mother chokes on her words.
I nod slowly, picking at a hangnail, ripping the skin away.
“How’s it going?” Mr. Crocker asks, smiling.
I don’t have it in me to tell them I got sick as hell after a run, had to miss work, and nearly got dropped by my trainer. Not to mention I’m scared to death of this weekend’s eight-mile run. When Kyle was training, he rarely complained and never considered giving up. At least not that I know of.
“I did seven miles last weekend,” I say softly. Barely. I had to walk a lot of it.
“Need any pointers? I ran a half one time.”
“Have any idea why my stomach hurts all the time?” Even though Matt changed my diet a little this week, I still feel pains.
Mr. Crocker cocks his head to the side. “Never heard that one before.”
“Did you want to join us for pizza?” Mrs. Crocker asks.
“I would, but my training plan says I have to eat a grilled chicken salad today.”
“I guess we’ll leave you to it, then,” Mrs. Crocker says, and then I’m alone again, with all his clothes and pictures and trophies, with his bed that hasn’t been warm in months, with only the sunlight streaming through the window to hug me.
I curl my arms around his pillow. Make myself think about the three-mile run I’m doing tonight after the heat bleeds off. One foot after the other.
Breathe, Annie, breathe.
The Fourth Circle of Hell
Not only does Matt train people to run races, he gives personal training sessions at the gym where he works on the side—or as I like to call it, the Fourth Circle of Hell. During my first session with him, I discovered muscles I didn’t know I had. I can’t imagine what tortures he has planned for today.
I lean my head into Matt’s office at the gym and find him chewing and reading a magazine. He wraps his sandwich back in its baggie, stands up, and high-fives me. “Ready to work out?” he says through a mouthful.
“Yeah.”
He chews, studying my face. “You feeling okay? You’re all red. Did you hydrate enough?”
“I drank five bottles of water today, like you said to.”
“Good.”
I let out the deep breath I was holding and follow Matt over to the treadmill, where I hop on and jog to warm up.
Ever since I fooled around with his brother a few weeks ago, I’ve been expecting Matt to drop some sort of hint that he knows, but it hasn’t happened. I mean, I didn’t think Matt would come right out and ask, “Whatever possessed you to hook up with my brother?!” But I expected some sort of reaction—a flash in his eyes or flushed cheeks. Either he has the best poker face of all time or Jeremiah kept his mouth shut.
It’s three weeks later, and I haven’t even seen him at training. Maybe he decided to use trails where I specifically wouldn’t be? He still hasn’t called. He won’t, and that’s just fine.
“Hey!” Matt says loudly over the sound of my feet pounding the treadmill. “Where are you?”
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to get your attention.”
“Sorry, my mind’s all over the place today.”
He increases the treadmill speed to six miles per hour. “Oh yeah? So’s mine. My big sister went into labor an hour ago.”
“What?” I shout. “Why aren’t you at the hospital? Why are you here?”
Matt grins. “It’s her first baby and considering my mom was in labor with all of us for like, days, I don’t think the baby will be here anytime soon.”
“So will this be your first niece or nephew?”
“Yeah. It’s a boy,” he says proudly.
I can’t help but smile at his giddiness. “Is your brother at the hospital with her?”
He gives me a brief look, but then he’s all business again. “The whole family’s there. I’ll head over as soon as we’re finished.” He points at my face. “Don’t think you can get out of training.”
“Darn.”
Matt leads me through a series of lunges and squats and other horrible exercises that make my legs feel like they’ve been lit on fire.
“You’re doing really well, Annie,” Matt says when I’m done with a load of jumping jacks. “You think you’ll be able to run the full ten miles on Saturday?”
I lean over and rest my hands on my knees, panting. “I’m gonna try…but, Matt?”
“Mm hmm?”
Every week the runs get harder and harder. I sleep more and more. More aches and pains pop up every day. I should go ahead and buy a lifetime supply of Ibuprofen at this rate.
Do I have a limit?
“I’m scared that I won’t be able to do it all, you know? The last time I ran ten miles, I got really sick.”
Matt pats my back. “If you weren’t scared, then I’d be worried.”
***
“Now, who wants to buy the bath mat?”
I groan. It seems bass ackwards that I haven’t even picked out which classes I’m taking yet, but I have to decide if I’ll supply a crock-pot or an ironing board.
I’ve been sitting at the Roadhouse for over an hour discussing our college suite with Vanessa, Kelsey, and her cousin, Iggy, a self-proclaimed hipster. She says that anyone who has a bike with more than one gear and claims to be a hipster isn’t really a hipster.
Who knew?
When I sat down at their booth earlier, Kelsey’s mouth fell open and she glared at Vanessa. “Annie’s your roommate?”
“You didn’t tell her?” I blurted at Vanessa.
Vanessa looked back and forth between us. “I told you my roommate was coming to meet us, didn’t I?”
“You could’ve told me,” Kelsey replied, furrowing her eyebrows. “I have a say who lives in our suite.”
“I thought this could be good for all of us,” Vanessa said, biting her lip.
“How could living with her be good for me?” Kelsey hissed.
My face burned red. “Is this because I live in a trailer?”
Kelsey gave me her what-the-F look. “Of course it’s not. It’s because we’re not friends anymore, Annie.”
We would be if you hadn’t ditched me for Vanessa and spread that rumor I dated Kyle even after you declared your love for him.
“Fine, whatever,” I said and got up to leave. Taking my chances with the random roommate lottery had to be better than this.
“I don’t want to live with a stranger, Kels,” Vanessa whined. “And my brother doesn’t want me to either. He’d probably make me keep on living with our papa.”
Kelsey looked over at Iggy, who was busy making a house out of sugar packets. “Fine,” Kelsey said, and I slowly sat back down, wishing she’d never moved out of Oakdale. If she hadn’t, I never would’ve grown self-conscious and started turning down her invitations to spend the night. I wouldn’t have started pulling away from my friend. How would my life be different now if she’d never moved?
An hour later, it’s like we’re participating in Middle East peace talks.
“I’m not bringing the bath mat,” Iggy argues. “I already said I’d bring the shower curtain. I have one with skulls on it.”
Kelsey, Vanessa, and I all pause to look at each other.
“I’ll get the bath mat,” Vanessa says.
“And I’ll get another shower curtain,” I say.
“Deal,” Kelsey says.
“Hey!” Iggy blurts. “I want my skulls!”
Kelsey makes a green checkmark on her color-coded chart that details all the stuff we need to buy for college. Kelsey is bringing everything with an orange checkmark next to it, which so far includes the coffee maker, a broom, and cleaning supplies. Vanessa is green and Iggy is blue. My color is purple. An assortment of Kelsey’s colored Sharpies is fanned across the table in a straight line.
“How did you get the name Iggy?” Vanessa asks, shoveling more cheese fries in her mouth.
Iggy peers at us through thick glasses and adjusts the leather bands circling her arms. “My parents named me in honor of the night I was conceived. They were at an Iggy Pop concert getting stoned and they did it in a bathroom. And here I am.”
Uh, okay.
Chewing, Vanessa stares at Iggy for a long moment. Kelsey ignores her cousin, seemingly used to such remarks. How in the world is the former head cheerleader of Hundred Oaks High stepcousins with Iggy the self-proclaimed hipster?
At least I’m sharing a bedroom with Vanessa at college.
“Can we get more cheese fries?” she asks me, gesturing at the empty white plate in front of us.
Anything to get away from this table. I jump to my feet and take my time walking over to the vestibule, where I find my manager, Stephanie.
She grins and I give her my don’t-mess-with-me face. “Can I have another order of cheese fries?”
“Hell, I’ll give you free New York strips if you want ’em. Your mom will be so happy to hear you’re hanging out with friends.”
I lift a shoulder. “We’re making plans for college is all. Nothing big.”
“I’ll get those fries right out to you,” she says, pushing me in the direction of our table. Damn. I’d been planning on loitering in the vestibule until the fries are ready. I slip back into the booth as Kelsey is checking her phone.
“I swear, that boy texts me for every little last thing.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Colton.”
“What did he want this time?” Vanessa asks.
“To let me know he’s awake from his nap.”
Vanessa looks at me out of the corner of her eye and gives me a sly grin. Huh. Does Colton have a thing for Kelsey? When she and her mom moved in with her new landscaper husband, Colton became her new next-door neighbor. They’ve been hanging out for years, but I thought they were just friends.
Kelsey puts her phone away. “Who wants to bring the plunger?”
This goes on for a while longer until Stephanie appears with the cheese fries and some potato skins. Vanessa grins widely, and I wonder where she’s putting all this food. She’s as thin as one of these fries.
Vanessa pops one in her mouth and dusts the salt from her fingers. “We need to discuss suite rules.”
“Like whether or not we’re allowed to cook fish?” Iggy asks.
“Fish?” Vanessa says, crinkling her nose.
“I know from my job at the library that some people are not okay when you cook fish in the microwave. It has a certain odor,” Iggy explains.
“O-kayyy,” Vanessa says. “No, I was not talking about fish, but we can definitely add that to our list of things not to do in the suite.”
Kelsey turns to a new section in her leather planner and writes “Rules of the Suite” in red Sharpie at the top. “I’ll record the rules and email them to everyone for your reference.”
Vanessa leans over and whispers in my ear, “This is why I asked you to share a room.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“I was actually talking about having ‘significant others’ stay overnight in our suite,” Vanessa says. “We need to work out some ground rules.”
“I’m not even at college yet and I’m already being sexiled,” I mutter.
“I say that none of us can have a guy spend the night more than twice a week,” Kelsey says.
“But what if Rory comes to stay on a three-day weekend?” Vanessa asks. “He’s going to college two hours away!”
“You’ll have to decide which two nights matter more,” Kelsey replies.
“You can always pitch a tent in the woods and sleep outside with your boyfriend,” Iggy says. “I have one you can borrow, but it might have a slightly fishy smell.”
Vanessa points at Kelsey with a cheese fry. “Only two nights? You need to get laid, my friend.”
Kelsey points at Vanessa with a green Sharpie. “I’m in a guy drought. You know that.”
Vanessa mutters to me, “Maybe she wouldn’t be in a guy drought if she’d just jump Colton already.”
“I have a great guy I can introduce you to,” Iggy tells Kelsey. “His name is Chevy Ernesto and he publishes his own newspaper, The Nashville Newsmonger. He sells it every day outside Food Lion.”
My mouth falls open. Kelsey ignores her cousin and focuses on punching numbers into her planner’s built-in calculator.
“I say we make up a signal to let each other know if we have a guy in our bedroom,” Vanessa says. “We can tie something to the doorknob, like a necktie or a jump rope.”
“What if someone steals the jump rope and we walk in on something we don’t want to see?” Iggy asks, pushing the glasses up on her nose.
“Who would steal the jump rope?” I ask.
“Anti-hipsters.”
Vanessa and I are now shaking our heads at each other.
“Is there anything else we’re missing from our supply list?” Kelsey asks, dragging a pen down a sheet of paper. “If not, I’ll email a copy of the list to everyone for your reference—”
I start laughing and find I can’t stop, like when Vanessa and Savannah giggled about that Justin Bieber cookie for ages.
It feels good.
#
Today’s Distance: 10 Miles
Four Months Until the Country Music Marathon
Kyle wasn’t my type.
Right before the Welcome Back Dance freshman year—the night of our first date—I stared in the mirror and swiped on mascara, wondering if I should cancel. I’d said yes because he put me on the spot. And he was kind of cute, I guess, if you liked short boys with short blond crew cuts. Which I didn’t. I liked tall skinny guys with floppy hair. Nick made fun of Kyle, saying he was too angelic looking and should go join a boy band immediately. If my own brother didn’t think Kyle was good enough for me, what would other people think? I’d always figured that people determined what kind of person you are based on who you date, whether you’re cool or pretty or not so attractive. It’s not nice, but it’s true.
At the dance, Kyle and I sat on the bleachers and talked, and he paid no attention to the guys goofing around, jumping to touch the rim of the basketball hoop. He didn’t check his phone once all night. I hated when people did that. He stayed tuned in to me, and the more I considered him, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t gorgeous, that he wasn’t tall. I honestly don’t know what clicked in my brain that night at the dance. Something just told me—this guy is nice; he treats you well. His smile is bright like a waking sun, peeking over the horizon. Who cares what other people think? Just give him a chance.
I did, and I never got bored with him. It seemed we always had something to talk about. He’d love hearing about my marathon training. It’s strange to have something new I’m excited about and not be able to tell him.
Matt doesn’t want us to get bored on our runs either, so he changes up our long-run locations nearly every weekend. For our second ten miler, we’re running a trail called the Richland Creek Greenway in Nashville. It connects a lot of the trails to each other, sort of like an interchange. You can tell the Fourth of July was a couple days ago—lots of firework debris and beer cans litter the area. People really partied here, I guess. I partied hard by working at the Roadhouse and making huge tips.
Still, even with the change in scenery, ten miles is a long time to spend alone—I’ve been thinking about him today, even though I try not to.
About half a mile from the finish, I see Jeremiah leaning against a mile marker. I haven’t seen him in over a month. How did I miss seeing him on the trails today? Was he coming from another direction and switched onto this trail at the interchange? As I get closer, I realize his face is bright red and his breathing is rough. I sprint to him.
“Annie, my ankle,” he says through gritted teeth.
I drop to my knees and touch his foot, making him wince.
“Shit!” he says. I glance up to find him looking down at me with watery blue eyes. Considering he’s got scars all over him and he did crazy races, his ankle must hurt pretty bad for him to have this kind of reaction.
“Are you pacing somebody today?” I ask, looking around for that Charlie guy he works out with.
He shakes his head. “I moved our sessions to Sundays. I was just training myself today—I have a race next weekend,” he says quietly.
Did he move his work to Sundays so he wouldn’t have to see me on Saturdays or something? That sure makes me feel good. It’s like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Was our hookup that bad for him?
“We need to get you back to your brother.”
“I can’t walk,” he whispers. “I don’t want to make it worse.”
“I’m only a half mile from the end of the trail. I’ll go get your brother.”
Jeremiah bites into his hand and nods.
“Can I help you sit down, first?” I ask, wrapping an arm around his waist. Nodding, he inhales deeply through his nose. I can tell he’s in a ton of pain as I lower him to rest on the ground. I yank off my CamelBak and slip it under his ankle, to prop it up.
“I’ll be back in a few, okay?” I say softly, then hop to my feet, and I’m fixing to start sprinting when he speaks again.
“Annie.”
I look into his blue eyes.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” I rush back onto the trail and make a mad dash to Matt. I’ve never run so hard in my life, not even during suicide sprints at the gym. I imagine Jeremiah wincing and that pushes me even harder. Run faster.
When I see the finish line and my teammates cheering, I don’t hold my arms up in celebration or yell “Woo!” like I normally do. I run straight into Matt’s arms. I’m panting so hard I can’t form words.
“Annie, why were you running so hard? You shouldn’t push yourself too soon,” Matt scolds me.
“Jere,” I blurt and lean over, my hands on my knees. “Jeremiah is hurt.”
“Where?” Matt asks.
“Half mile that way.” I point down the trail. “He can’t walk.”
“Let’s go,” Matt says, jerking me toward his truck. “Bridget! Stay with everybody else,” he yells to his assistant.
I jog to Matt’s truck, hop in, and he drives along the trail, hitting tree branches and running over tree roots all the way to Jeremiah. When we get there, Matt slams the truck into park, leaves the engine running, and leaps down before I can even get my seatbelt unbuckled. Matt squeezes Jeremiah’s shoulder, then immediately starts examining his ankle.
“Annie,” Matt says calmly. “Get an ice pack out of the backseat. And an ace bandage. And Tylenol.”
I push emotion aside and do everything Matt says, happy to play nurse. I bend down next to Jeremiah and touch his wrist as his brother patches up his ankle.
“What were you doing when you hurt yourself?” Matt asks in a low voice.
“I stepped wrong on a rock.”
Matt stops examining his ankle and gives him a long look.
“I swear,” Jeremiah says. “I swear.” When Matt nods, Jeremiah lets out a sigh, almost as if he was more worried about Matt’s reaction than his hurt ankle.
“Did I rip a tendon or break it?” Jeremiah goes on.
“It’s just a sprain, I think,” Matt says, gently moving the ankle in circles. “We’ll know more once we get the X-ray.” Matt gestures for me to move closer. “See, Annie? If it were broken, we wouldn’t be able to move it at all.”
“So it’s a sprain?” I ask, in awe of how much he knows about the human body.
Jeremiah wipes sweat off his face. “If it’s a sprain, I can run on it next week, then.”
Matt nods, but my mouth falls open. “What?” I say. “You can’t run on this. You need to get better!”
“I’ll push through it.”
“You probably can,” Matt says. “But you’d better not let Mom find out you’re racing on a hurt ankle.”
Jeremiah gives his brother a tiny, grateful smile.
“You don’t just push through a sprained ankle,” I snap. “You need rest and ice. RICE. You know, rest, ice, compression, and elevation. You have to do RICE,” I ramble.
“And that’s what I’ll be doing until next weekend,” Jeremiah snaps back.
“I don’t want you to get hurt worse,” I say, and Matt looks back and forth between us, then gently rests a hand on my arm.
“He should be all right. You did the right thing by coming to find me. You helped him a lot today—he would’ve been a whole lot worse off if he’d had to hobble back.”
“Jere,” I say, making fists with my hands. “Don’t do this. You should take care of yourself.”
His voice is harsh. “I’ll be fine.”
My mind flashes back. Kyle flipped the covers back and stepped out of my bed, fumbling for his boxers on the floor. A crack of thunder rocked my trailer. A few minutes later, he was holding a newspaper over his head. He prepared to make a break for his car.
“Maybe you should wait for the rain to clear out,” I said.
He kissed me. “I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t.
Jeremiah never called after he said he would. He hasn’t made any effort to see me in the past month. And I won’t stand by and watch him hurt himself further when there’s no reason for it.
“Hope you feel better,” I say. “See you around.”
I leave Matt to deal with his brother and walk away.
“Annie,” Jeremiah calls, but I’m already sprinting, finishing my run for the second time today.
***
I sleep in on Sunday mornings.
And by sleep in, I mean I stay in bed until nine.
After working Saturday nights at the Roadhouse, I never get home before 1:00 a.m., and I have to be back at work by ten for Sunday morning brunch. Even if I sleep until nine, my eyes still feel heavy and dry. So that’s why I kind of feel like murdering somebody when my phone rings at around seven. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s a Tennessee area code. No one calls anybody anymore. People send texts. This must be an emergency. Oh hell, what if something happened to my brother while he was camping down at Normandy? I sit up straight and push the answer call button.
“Hello?” I mumble.
“Up and at ’em!”
I rub my eyes. “Who is this?”
“Jere. From the trails?”
“Oh.” I so don’t feel like talking to someone stupid enough to run on an injured ankle. Or stupid enough to call at—I glance at the clock—7:00 a.m. “I’m sleeping, Jeremiah.”
“No you’re not,” he replies in a slow drawl. “You’re talking to me.”
I make a face at my cell phone. “I’m fixing to be asleep in about a minute. Now, what’s up? Make it quick.”
“Why are you still in bed at seven?”
“Because most of us aren’t from Planet Krypton. Why’d you call?” I try to keep my voice level, but it comes out totally snarky.
“To say thanks for helping me yesterday…”
“You’re welcome.”
“…and to see if you want to come over to my house.”
“At seven in the morning?”
He ignores this. “My mom is having all her church lady friends over for fried chicken this afternoon, and I was thinking we could crash it. Mom’s fried chicken is awesome.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“That’s crazy. Mom’s fried chicken is always a good idea.”
I smile slightly, curl back up under my sheets, and pick the sleep out of my eye.
“So how about it? I’ll text you directions how to get here. I’d come pick you up but I can’t drive today—I need to keep my ankle elevated.”
“What you need is a foot doctor. And a head doctor while you’re at it.”
“I’m fine. The doctor said it’s just a sprain. Now, can you be here by two o’clock? If you get here any later, you might miss the best pieces of chicken.”
“I work until three on Sundays.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have my little sisters save us some. That’s what they’re for. I’ll make sure you get a chicken leg, I promise.”
“Fine,” I say, to get off the phone. “I’m going back to sleep.”
I hang up before he can say another word and put the ringer on silent. I snuggle back under my covers and fall asleep with a smile on my face. But I wake up two hours later with a frown. I can’t believe what I agreed to. Did I really say I’d go over to Jeremiah’s house?
Honestly, who makes calls at 7:00 a.m. on Sundays?
***
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