“I can’t believe you distracted me!” I snap, charging over to wait at the ball return.
He holds his palms up. “I never said I played fair.”
After he bowls his second strike of the night, he pumps his fist and I groan.
He doesn’t even look like a bowler. I wore khakis and a polo, because I like to dress the part, but he’s wearing a gray knitted cap and a white T-shirt. Cargo shorts hang off his hips. Slacker.
He took me to an alley where they do “Cosmic Bowling,” which basically means they light the place up with glow in the dark stars and burn incense. Cheesy, yeah, but my inner geek thinks it’s pretty awesome.
We’re on to the seventh frame. I lift my pink swirl ball and charge up to the lane. I hurl the ball as hard as I can and manage to knock down six pins. “Yessss.” Now, to see if I can make the spare.
Waiting for my ball to reappear, I notice the couple to our right. Both seem more interested in their phones than bowling—or each other, for that matter. I hate it when people do that. I glance over at Jeremiah. He’s busy wiping his bowling ball with a cloth like it’s his most prized possession.
My ball pops out of the chute. I take a deep breath before my turn. I’m gonna ace this spare.
“Don’t psych yourself out,” Jeremiah says from behind me.
I whip around and point at him. “Quiet, you!”
He drags fingers across his lips, closing his mouth with an imaginary zipper.
Okay. I get in the zone, aim, and roll the ball down the lane. I clasp my hands together and pray for the other four pins to fall. I knock three down easy, but the fourth rocks back and forth like a bobblehead. I jump up and down trying to knock the pin loose, but it rights itself. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
When I turn to face Jeremiah, his hands are folded behind his head and he has a smug smile on his face.
“I’m really starting to hate you,” I say.
“Who, me?”
“I’m a great bowler! I should be winning.”
“But you’re not.”
I flop down in the seat next to him behind the computer. “Why am I playing like crap tonight?”
“I don’t know. It’s just simple physics.”
“Just simple physics? You ass.”
He claps his hands once. “Well, it’s my turn.”
He leaps to his feet. As he’s prepping to bowl, I creep up behind him on tiptoes. He bites his lip, lifts the ball to his chest. And that’s when I charge at him and yell “Bugaboo!”
“Ahh!” he screams, but manages to throw the ball anyway. It sails down the lane and knocks seven pins over.
“Gah!” I exclaim, kneeling to the floor. “Why do you have to be so good at everything?”
He puts out a hand to help me up, pulling me to his chest. “Aren’t you glad we didn’t make a friendly wager on this game?”
That’s when I see them. Kyle’s best friend, Seth, and his girlfriend, Melanie.
They are three lanes down from us. Seth’s ball falls to his side when he sees I’m here with another guy, standing so close I can hear his breathing. Smell his soap.
I rush to step away from Jeremiah, tripping over my bowling shoes, and he gives me a weird look. Seth approaches me, focusing on something over my shoulder. Is he studying Jeremiah?
“How’s it going?” Seth asks.
“Not bad,” I say quietly. “You?”
He nods slowly. “Kyle’s parents told me you’re running a marathon. That’s really cool.”
“Thanks.”
“I kinda wish you’d told me. I would’ve started training to run it with you.”
I slip my hands into my back pockets, not knowing what to do with my hands. When I don’t respond, Seth says, “My mom was thinking about starting a collection for your marathon. Like, asking people to give a dollar for every mile you run and then donate the money to the fire department in Kyle’s name.”
I pinch the top of my nose and sniffle. It’s nice that people believe in me, but what if I don’t finish the race? I don’t want to let them down. Besides, this is something I’m doing for Kyle, not for anybody else. I guess it’s selfish that I want to keep this marathon all to myself. But it’s kind of like the last time I’ll be with Kyle—the last hurrah we never had.
Seth clears his throat. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around. I’ll be there to cheer you on. At the marathon.”
Jeremiah walks up behind me. “Is everything okay here?”
I feel a sudden urge to rush into the bathroom, but I stand up straight. “Seth, this is Jeremiah. Jere, this is Seth. He was best friends…” I can’t get the words out.
“Annie’s boyfriend was my best friend,” Seth says softly.
Sadness flickers in Jeremiah’s eyes as they shake hands. Seth sizes Jeremiah up. What’s he thinking? That Jere is nothing like Kyle? Sure, Kyle was a runner too, but he combed his hair and knew what a belt is. The thought makes me smile to myself.
“I better get going,” Seth says, looking from Jeremiah to me. “See you, Annie.”
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jeremiah stares me down. “You all right?”
“Fine.” My throat feels scratchy.
He glances over at Seth putting on his bowling shoes and lifts a hand as if he’s going to squeeze my shoulder, but suddenly adjusts his knitted hat instead.
“Tell you what,” he says. “Let me finish beating you at bowling, and then I’ll treat you to a Blizzard at Dairy Queen.”
I scowl at him. Then agree to the Blizzard. I do like the kind with Snickers in it.
•••
Jeremiah decides to order a chicken sandwich and a large fry in addition to a Reese’s Blizzard.
“I thought you said you already ate,” I say.
“I had supper, but this is my late-night snack.”
I roll my eyes at his ripped, six-foot-tall frame. “How do you maintain your girlish figure?”
He grins. “You know how it is with running. It’s like I can’t eat enough. I’m always hungry.”
“I know what you mean.”
“My brother says that with my training schedule and working as a pacer, I should eat at least 6,000 calories a day.”
That’s amazing and disgusting at the same time. “Since I started running, I’ve been eating two jars of peanut butter a week.”
He leans in toward me. “I bet I could eat four jars.”
I take a step back. “You don’t have to beat me at everything, you know.”
At my skittishness, he adjusts his knit cap and focuses on the Dairy Queen worker scooping fries into a paper sleeve.
We get our order and sit at a table outside, watching cars drive by on the four-lane. The summer air warms me like a hug. I scoop Snickers Blizzard into my mouth and lick the spoon dry.
“My brother said you just graduated high school?” Jeremiah asks, biting into his chicken sandwich.
“This isn’t fair. You have an inside way to find out stuff about me. I don’t know a lick about you.”
Chewing, he looks up. “What do you want to know?”
“What else do you do besides race?”
“I go to school at MTSU. I play intramural soccer for my fraternity. I like watching TV and reading the newspaper.” He lifts a shoulder, his face turning a bit pink. “That’s about it, I guess.”
“I’m starting MTSU this fall.”
His expression changes when he hears I’ll be going to his school. He finishes chewing a bite, then licks mustard off his thumb. “Do you have any interest in playing intramural soccer? I’ll get you on another team, so I can beat you at that too.” He laughs and stuffs fries in his mouth.
I give him a serious look that shuts him right up.
“What do you study?” I ask.
“Education. I might be a P.E. teacher
. My goal in life is never to have a desk job.”
I spoon ice cream onto my tongue. “I don’t want a desk job, either.”
“What do you wanna do?”
“Not sure yet.” I liked helping Jeremiah when he hurt his foot, and I like feeling healthy and being on a schedule. It could be cool to help somebody else the way Matt has helped me. “I’ve sort of been thinking about physical therapy or nursing.”
“I dunno,” Jeremiah says. “I don’t think you’re cut out to be a nurse.”
I gape at him.
“I mean, you couldn’t even diagnose that you had an unborn twin stuck to your foot.”
I throw a french fry at his chest, but it veers off course onto the sidewalk.
He smirks at the fry on the ground. “Clearly I could beat you at darts too…So why’d you pick MTSU?”
“I had to choose a state school. So I could get financial aid, you know?”
He pops a fry in his mouth. “Same here.”
“My mom pushed me my whole life to go to college…she made sure I did my homework and studied for tests.”
“Mine too.” He bites into his chicken sandwich and stares out at the highway. “I just wish she wouldn’t push me all the time now.”
“I wish mine wouldn’t push me either…” We look at each other for a long moment. Then I admit, “My mom had been trying to get me to hang out with friends and go shopping and stuff for months…and she just kept pushing me until I snapped. And I said some stuff—”
Some stuff I regret. I blamed her for my boyfriend’s death.
Jeremiah looks at me expectantly, but I don’t want to tell him any of my big secrets, my shame. “My mom never talks to me about anything real anymore. And I don’t know how to get back to where we were.”
“Have you tried talking to her?” Jeremiah asks through a mouthful of fries.
I shake my head.
He swallows the bite in his mouth. “My mom and I didn’t talk for a long time…she threw a hissy fit after I hurt myself bungee jumping. “
“And now?”
“Things aren’t great, but I know I can go to her anytime I need her. Maybe your mom’s waiting on you.”
Maybe.
My entire life, Mom always told me: “You’re a beautiful girl, Annie, and lots of boys will like you, but never depend on one. You should depend on yourself.”
I knew Kyle loved me. I knew he’d take care of me forever. But I had never forgotten what Mom said. She and my father never married—he left before I could crawl, but I don’t really care that I’ve never known him. Who would want to know a father who walks out on his girlfriend and young kids?
Mom has dated off and on over the years, but never serious enough to settle down. And I think she’s fine with that—Nick and I have always been her focus. She gave me everything, sometimes working two jobs to make enough money to pay for our braces, my summer camps, and Nick’s baseball cleats.
That’s why I said no to Kyle’s proposal—because I want to go to college, to learn to take care of myself.
Jeremiah’s right. I could try reaching out to my mom again. Even though we live paycheck-to-paycheck, clip coupons, and have never flown anywhere on an airplane, she’s never let me down. She always makes it work.
Maybe I can try to make it work too.
•••
I can’t stand the idea of not being able to beat Jeremiah at something.
So I agree to hang out with him after my brunch shift on Sunday. While waiting for him in the Roadhouse parking lot, I sniff my T-shirt. Yup, I smell like onions.
He arrives right on time, wearing running shorts and a wrinkled gray tee. I smile up at his face as he walks up to me, and that’s when I discover the large welt next to his left eye.
“Oh my God,” I say, lifting up on tiptoes to get a better look. Without thinking, I gently push his light brown hair back to check out the greenish lump. The bruise looks a few days old. “What happened?”
“White-water rafting with some of the guys. We crashed.”
I thought he was giving up extreme sports. Does white-water rafting count as one? “How big were the rapids?”
“Only class four. Pretty moderate. That’s why I figured it’d be okay, you know?” He looks embarrassed.
“What did your mom say?”
“She hasn’t seen it…I’ve been staying at my fraternity house until the swelling goes down. I don’t want Jennifer and Lacey to see it and get scared.”
“Jeremiah,” I say quietly. “Please be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
I don’t buy that at all. I mean, he ran on an injured ankle, and less than two weeks later, he has another injury. Worried, I touch a finger to the scar on his arm.
He leans down, huskily whispering in my ear, “Careful. Last time you touched my scar, we ended up on the banks of the Little Duck.”
I yank my finger away. “This isn’t a good idea.” I pull my keys from my pocket and stalk toward my car, feeling a shiver shoot up my spine.
“Annie! Wait.” He runs to block my driver’s side door, not letting me open it. “I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or hurt you or anything.”
“Then why did you say that?”
“Because I’m a guy. And sometimes guys say dick things. Because guys think with their d—”
“Jere.” I jingle my keys, inhaling deeply. “Look, I like hanging out with you, but what I need is a friend. That’s all.”
He flexes his hands, looks deep in my eyes. “Will my friend forgive me for saying something stupid?”
I slowly return my keys to my pocket and gesture for him to lead us to his Jeep. “What did you want to do today?”
“Well, it’s Shuffleboard Sunday.”
“Shuffleboard Sunday? Really?” I ask as he opens my door for me.
“I needed a sport that starts with S. To match Sunday, you know?”
I climb up; he shuts the door behind me and jogs to the driver’s side.
“And you could only come up with shuffleboard?”
He throws me a wicked smile. “I figured you’d prefer that to skydiving or Sumo Wrestling Sunday.”
“What is Sumo Wrestling Sunday?”
“We’d dress up in those sumo wrestling suits that would make us look real fat. And then we’d wrestle.”
“Oh good Lord,” I mutter. “Shuffleboard Sunday sounds just fine.”
“Good. I had no idea where I was gonna get sumo wrestling suits.”
I give him a look.
“We can always do Synchronized Swimming Sunday if you want, but I don’t know how we’d declare a winner.”
“Would you just drive, Jeremiah?” I snap, working to hold my laughter inside.
He chuckles, starts the ignition, and turns out onto the highway. The scorching summer sun blazes through the Jeep windows; my thighs stick to the duct tape holding the seat together. We sing along to the radio as we dip up and down the hills near Spring Hill. He takes me to, I kid you not, his grandparents’ old folks’ home.
“Why are we here?” I blurt.
“This is the only place I know with a shuffleboard court.”
I accidentally snort, and once the laughter starts, I can’t stop. And then he’s laughing too. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. The elderly people loitering in the courtyard give us confused looks.
We laugh until an elderly man with a walker appears. He’s wearing a gray pageboy cap and has more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei.
“Jeremiah Brown.”
“Hey, PopPop.”
PopPop reaches up to pat his grandson’s face, gingerly touching the greenish bruise. “You been icing this, young man?”
“Yes, sir.”
Seemingly satisfied with that answer, his grandfather then turn
s his attention to me. “You haven’t visited in two weeks and now you show up with a date?”
“This isn’t a date. It’s a competition. I’m fixin’ to beat Annie at shuffleboard.”
“You’re using your PopPop for his club membership?” PopPop gives his grandson a shifty look.
“He thinks this is an exclusive club,” Jeremiah whispers to me. “But it’s an old folks’ home.”
PopPop grabs his grandson’s ear and shakes it.
“Ow! Stop it!” Jeremiah says.
“Why do you put up with this clown?” PopPop grabs my elbow. “Come sit with me.”
Jeremiah rescues me from his grandfather’s clutches. “No, no. Don’t grab Annie like that.”
“If you’re not dating her, I will.”
“You better not let Granny hear you say that,” Jeremiah warns. “Where is she anyway?”
“She went to play bingo over at the church.”
“I reckon you couldn’t go, huh? A sinner like you would spontaneously combust the minute he walks inside,” Jeremiah says, and PopPop grabs his ear again.
“I’ll have you thrown out of my resort,” PopPop says.
“It’s an old folks’ home!”
“PopPop, can you keep score for us?” I interrupt, in case they were planning on arguing all afternoon, and the next thing I know, I’m beating Jeremiah at shuffleboard because his grandfather keeps awarding me extra points.
“You get ten points just for being pretty,” he says.
“Yessss,” I say, pumping my fist.
Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “Stop hitting on her, PopPop. She’s not your type.”
“And what’s her type?”
“Somebody under seventy.”
“I’m cutting you out of my will, boy.”
I love their banter. It kind of makes me jealous, to be honest. My mother’s parents live in Mississippi and I don’t see them much. And I never knew my dad’s parents.
I use my broom-paddle thing to push the disk toward the numbered triangle. It stops on the number eight. I hop up and down, smiling.
Jeremiah’s turn. He slides the next disk and it lands outside the triangle. “Daggownnit!”
“Don’t use that foul language of yours around a young lady,” PopPop says. “That’s negative five points.”