“I’ll take you up on that, thanks.”
In three weeks, I will move into the dorms at college and will have to find a new job. In three weeks, I start a new life.
During the Saturday dinner rush, I’m waiting at the window for Marty the line cook to scoop sides onto my plates so I can get this order out to one of my four tops.
“Hurry up, Marty! Did you have to dig the potatoes out of the ground or something?”
“Hold your horses.” Marty plops mashed potatoes next to a rib eye and scoops mac ’n’ cheese onto a plate with chicken strips.
“Annie,” Stephanie hollers back into the kitchen. “You got a group of guys waiting at your round.”
I groan as I garnish my plates—lemons for the fish, honey mustard for the chicken strips. How many times is Nick gonna bring his friends to eat at my round? I hope he didn’t bring Evan with him. After he sort of asked me out, I’ve been avoiding him.
I lift my tray above my shoulder and carry it out onto the floor, preparing to give Nick my evil eye. But when I pass my round, I nearly drop the tray.
Jeremiah is here.
With six guys I’ve never seen before.
“Annie,” he calls.
“That’s her?” says a guy wearing a ball cap backwards.
“Damn, she’s hot,” another one whisper-yells. He stole one of the coonskin caps off the wall and is now wearing it.
Oh Christ. This is gonna be a long night.
I drop off the food at my four top, quickly refill their iced teas, and get my two top another round of beers. Then I take a deep breath and head to the round.
I march right up, give them a basket of bread, and say, “Jere, this is my best table. You better leave me a big tip.”
The guys hoot and holler, getting a kick out of me.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jeremiah says, relaxing back in his chair.
“And you,” I say, pointing at the boy who stole the coonskin cap from the wall. “Take that off right now. It’s an antique!”
He sheepishly slips the cap off and hangs it back in its proper place.
“Do you have a sister?” another one asks, earning a prompt slap from Jeremiah.
He grins at me, cute as ever. He’s wearing a black polo shirt and one of his knit caps. I’m beginning to think he sleeps in them. What else does he sleep in? I shake the thought from my head.
“You better behave, Jeremiah,” I say. “I’m still pissed at you for last night.”
He nods as the guys go “Oooohh.” They think I’m playing, but I’m not. And Jeremiah knows it. His face fogs over and he worries his lip.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
I gently touch his shoulder to show him we’re still friends. “I think you’re dumb as hell right now, but I forgive you. I couldn’t handle it if you got hurt. Now what do you want to drink?”
He lets out a deep breath. “Sweet tea, please.”
A few of the guys are old enough to drink, so I wait for their beers at the bar, happy to have a chance to calm down. I steal cherries from the bar and pop them in my mouth, thinking. I’m happy Jeremiah’s okay, but I want to punch his lights out too. I’m also glad he came to sit in my section at the Roadhouse. I don’t like all these random emotions. My life is a damned clown show.
The atmosphere is a lot happier when I return to my round and start distributing glasses of tea and frosted mugs filled with frothy beer.
“Thanks, Annie,” one of the guys says with a big grin. “I’m Jere’s friend, Mason.”
“I didn’t know Jere had friends,” I joke. “Did he pay y’all to come with him tonight?”
They howl with laughter at Jeremiah’s expense. He scowls. “These idiots are in my fraternity. Can we have more bread, please?”
That empty basket had at least ten rolls in it!
“I swear, Jeremiah, all you do is eat.”
“I’m an active guy. I need the calories. Weren’t you starving after all that shuffleboard last week?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m hungry. That’s why I’m here—I’m starving.”
“He’s lying, Annie,” a boy with black curly hair says. “He’s here because he wanted to come see you.”
Jeremiah throws a peanut at his head. And that starts a peanut fight.
Boys.
I go back into the kitchen. One of the prep cooks came down with a summer cold, so Stephanie has to fill in. Thank the heavens. The last thing I need is her discovering who the guy at my round is.
After I carry food out to my two top, I take orders at the round. Jeremiah wants a bacon cheeseburger and fries with all the trimmings. Where does he put all this food?
“We’re still on for the race tomorrow, right?” he asks.
“Yep. You’re pickin’ me up at five thirty a.m.”
“You should just sleep over with Jere,” Mason says. “You’d both get to stay in bed longer.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Jeremiah says, launching a peanut at his head. The other guys burst out laughing as my face burns up in embarrassment.
Another peanut fight ensues. They occupy my table for the rest of the night, raucously drinking beer after beer and flirting with me.
And leave a 60 percent tip.
•••
When he told me to wear a white T-shirt, perverted things immediately jumped to mind.
But when Jeremiah hops down out of his Jeep and slowly walks to the door of our trailer, I know it wasn’t because he wants to see me in a wet T-shirt—he’s wearing a white tee and white shorts himself.
Nick stares out the window like a house cat stalking a bird. “This guy looks like an order of mashed potatoes.”
“I still don’t know why you’re awake so early,” I say.
Smiling, his mouth twitches. “You know why.”
“Yeah, we’re not missing this,” Mom says, sipping from a coffee mug.
I swear. Nick goes camping every Saturday night with his girlfriend and Mom never climbs out of bed before noon on Sundays after working the night shift at Quick Pick. But here they are at 5:30 a.m., up early to see the guy taking me to a race.
“He’s just a friend,” I say softly.
Mom gently pats my back. “And I want to meet your friend.”
Can Jeremiah see the three of us are staring at him out the window? If he can, he must think we’re real creepers. He focuses on my front door and lets out a deep breath, as if he’s nervous.
When he knocks, Nick and Mom rush to let him in. He grins when he sees me, but turns his focus to my mother, shaking her hand. “I’m Jeremiah Brown, ma’am.”
“Call me Robin.” I can tell she likes him right away, especially when he smiles.
My brother, however, is not as welcoming. He shakes Jeremiah’s hand. Hard. “What time will Annie be home?”
“Ow. We should be back by nine. Unless she wants to get brunch.”
“She wants to get brunch,” Mom rushes to reply.
“Mom,” I warn. Please don’t push me.
“Or you can come home and eat with me,” she says, and I give her a grateful smile.
“Text me on your way home,” Nick says to me.
“Okay, Dad.”
Mom and Jeremiah snort at the same time, and Nick storms off to the kitchen in a huff.
“I’m sorry about him,” Mom tells Jeremiah. “He’s not normally like this.”
“It’s all right,” he says in his slow drawl, laughing. “My little sister, Lacey, just turned sixteen. Her first date had to deal with me, my dad, and my brother.”
But this isn’t a date, I want to say.
Jeremiah tells my mother good-bye, saying he hopes to see her again real soon, and then we’re off. We drive to downtown Nashville, over by the waterfront, where the Cumberland River l
ooks green today, as always.
Before we get out of the Jeep, he pulls his hair back into a low ponytail. I swallow. I prefer his hair long and wild, but this look makes him seem harder, edgier. The muscle in his forearm flexes, showing off the crop circle tattoos. And that makes me think of his shoulder blade. Even though he has a shirt on, I can remember what the tattoo looks like. I still don’t know what a black lightning bolt superimposed over a black circle means. Considering his mom is a youth pastor, I doubt it’s a devil worshipping sign.
He catches me staring. “Yeah?”
“What’s the tattoo on your shoulder blade mean?”
He looks at me like I sprouted an extra head. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shake my head. “Is it a secret tribal sign or something?”
“It’s The Flash.”
“What?”
“I ought to take you straight home.” He climbs out and comes around to open my door. “How do you not know who The Flash is?”
“It’s a person?”
He gives me a withering look. “He’s only the fastest, best superhero ever.”
“Better than Iron Man?”
“Much better than Iron Man.”
“But Iron Man is sexy.”
Jeremiah considers this, tilting his head. “You know who’s hot? Iron Man’s assistant, Pepper…She kind of has your hair color.” He tweaks my braid, and in a sneaky whisper he adds, “Well, it won’t be that color for long.”
“What?” I blurt.
He gestures at a large sign. The race is called Color Me Rad. A sea of white T-shirts fills my vision.
“Jeremiah Brown,” I start, with hands on my hips. “What is this race exactly?”
He bites his lips together, obviously trying not to laugh. “Well, um, you see, as you run the course, you’ll get sprayed with colored powder.”
“Like baby powder?”
“It’s more like Pixy Stix.”
“How much colored powder?”
“Um, well, you won’t have blond hair anymore and your shirt definitely won’t be white…”
I laugh, then charge toward the registration line, leaving him to chase after me. I suck in a breath when I see the entrance fee is $25, but it turns out Jeremiah already covered my fee.
When I try to protest, he says, “My parents always say that if a guy invites a girl someplace, he pays for it. It doesn’t matter if we’re dating or not.”
That’s nice of him, but it makes me slightly uncomfortable. On the other hand, I severely wiped out my cash stash the other day at Target, so I will take this as a blessing.
“Thank you,” I say.
His mouth twitches into a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Half an hour later, we’re pinning numbers to our shirts with safety pins. My number is 5,094 and his is 3.
“What do the numbers mean?” I ask.
“Well, it’s based on finish time. The faster you finish a race, the smaller your number is.”
“So they think you have a chance at winning?”
He nods. On the way to the starting line, a couple of race organizers try to move Jeremiah to the first corral, but he says no thanks.
“Aren’t you gonna run up front and try to win?” I ask.
“I’d rather run with you.”
“You want to come in 5,094th place?”
His mouth quirks into a smile. “I don’t care.”
“Jeremiah? You make me happy.”
“You make me happy too,” he says quietly.
He kisses his lucky leather cord necklace, saying it’s tradition, then the starting gun fires. The crowd roars. Everyone slowly begins to inch forward. I have a sudden fear that during the race, I’ll get really tired and won’t be able to finish. How embarrassing would that be? If I can’t finish a measly 5K, how could I ever finish the entire marathon?
As we cross the official starting line, a burst of yellow powder blasts my face and shirt. I stop dead. It’s like Big Bird blew up. Jeremiah dies laughing at my expression and tugs on my arm to make me start running.
I get what Matt said about wanting to run fast. The adrenaline, the cheers, the laughter—all of it makes me want to blast off. Then purple powder splatters us, topping the yellow.
“You look like Bart Simpson and Barney’s love child,” I say.
“That’s just wrong, Winters. Wrong.”
By the end of the race, we’ve gone from looking like Skittles to just plain dirty. The colors mixed together, creating a look I’d call Blue Sewage. I hold my hands above my head as we cross the finish line, where a final dusting of powder paints me orange. A year ago, I couldn’t run half a mile. And I just finished my first 5K. I laugh, grinning up at the sun.
“Annie.”
“Yeah, Jere?”
He lifts my braid up. “Your hair is green.”
I grab his T-shirt in my hand and pull him closer. “You drive me insane.”
He gives me a bear hug, and for the first time in a long time, I’m content, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
TODAY’S DISTANCE: 14 MILES
Two Months until the Country Music Marathon
“Let’s walk it off. C’mon.”
Matt has a hand on my elbow. I feel queasy. Need to throw up. Need to throw up now. I vomit into bushes beside the trail. My vision goes hazy through my tear-filled eyes and acid burns my throat. Halfway through today’s run, I had the worst bathroom experience of my life and I feel like I could have another any minute. How embarrassing.
“Drink this,” Matt says gently, and I take the paper cup from his hand and sip. Lemon. Mmm. He gives me a towel to wipe my mouth.
“Hard,” I say between sips. “The run was hard.”
He squeezes my shoulders and smiles. “You did great. Just think, you can do fourteen miles. You’re over halfway there.”
“But what if, on the day of the marathon, my stomach gets screwed up to the point I can’t finish?” I stopped three times today to use the bathroom. I couldn’t keep up with Liza. It sucks running so far alone. And damn does it suck using porta-potties!
“I’ve never had a client with such a sensitive stomach,” Matt says, scratching the back of his head. “And you’ve been taking Pepto?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should start eating white pizza, you know, without the sauce.”
“That’s sacrilege,” I reply, making him laugh.
I finish my Gatorade, then Matt helps me stretch out my legs. He takes my ankle in his hands, pulling my leg toward his chest.
“Oww!” I say.
He lets go immediately. “Where does it hurt?”
“Left knee and thigh.”
“The knee’s a little swollen. How long’s it been hurting?”
“It bothered me when I was biking the other night. But today…a few miles?”
“Did you walk on it or keep running?”
“Kept running.” I understand now why Jeremiah wants to push through the pain. I can’t imagine giving up now, not after all this training.
“Next time it hurts, stop and walk for a couple minutes, okay?” Matt helps me bend it back and forth. “Bridget, fetch me an ice pack, please.”
While she’s doing that, he lugs two big binders out of his truck, flipping through both of them. He pulls out the waiver form I signed when I joined his team. I feel a sudden rush of fear that maybe he’ll tell me this is it. That I need to stop running. That he doesn’t want to lose his 100 percent race-day success rate. That I won’t get to run the marathon in honor of Kyle. But then I get a hold of myself. He’s just looking at my insurance information, for God’s sake.
The other binder reminds me of my brother’s baseball card collection, but it’s filled with business cards instead of Topps.
Matt whi
ps one out. “I’ll call this orthopedist today and try to get you an appointment. He might be able to see you first thing Monday if I call in a favor.”
“Do you think it’s that serious?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know. But we’re not messing around with it. You’ve worked too hard to have something eff it up now.”
My hand shakes as I take the card from him. “Will the visit cost money?”
“This guy takes your insurance. I can come with you if you want me to. We’ll make sure we adjust your training correctly if we need to.”
“That’d be good, thanks.”
Matt won’t let me leave until my leg is good and iced, so I’m still here when Jeremiah finishes his twenty-four mile run in which he paced two men. Of course he freaks out when he sees my leg propped up.
“Let me see it,” he demands.
I yank the ice pack away and he gently runs his fingers over my kneecap, making me shiver.
“It’s swollen, all right,” he says softly. “Some people’s knees just aren’t cut out for long distances. The wear and tear over time makes it harder to run.”
“But they keep running?”
He nods. “Sure, they get braces, start doing new exercises to strengthen the muscle around the knee. Some people eat a lot of fish.”
I scrunch my nose, thinking of Iggy. “Fish?”
“It’s good for your knees. Now keep icing it. I’m sure it’ll feel better later—I can tell nothing’s seriously wrong with it.”
“Jere, you ran on a sprained ankle. You’re not pushing me, are you?”
“That’s different. I’d never do anything to hurt you.” His eyes bore into mine, then he suddenly digs his phone out of his pocket and swipes the screen on. “Are you working tonight?” he asks casually, not taking his eyes off his phone.
“Why? You gonna come hog my best table again?” I ask.
“No way. My friends already won’t stop talking about how hot you are. They need to get lives.”
His friends have been talking about me?
“Actually, I’m not working tonight. It’s my brother’s birthday, so I’m going with him and his friends to Normandy Lake. I promised him I’d go camping.”