Breathe, Annie, Breathe (8 page)

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?

•••

It turns out that Jeremiah’s place is forty minutes from mine. He lives over in Bell Buckle, which is on the other side of Murfreesboro, where I’m going to college in August. Forty minutes seems like a long drive to see a guy I’m not that interested in seeing again, so I tell myself I’m going for the fried chicken.

I’ve actually never been to Bell Buckle before. It’s a super rural town that people drive through on their way from Chattanooga to Nashville. I discover there’s not much here except for a few gas stations and one of those massive fireworks stores. I’ve always worried about those. What if the whole place explodes at once? Would you see the mushroom cloud from space?

I turn down a bumpy country road, drive past Bell Buckle Chapel, and come upon a long line of cars. Mrs. Brown must have invited the entire church to her fried chicken fest.

I park beside a ditch and turn off the ignition. Clutching the steering wheel, I blow air out and gaze up at the brick façade. Thank God his house is nothing fancy—the shutters need painting and the sidewalk is crumbling. But the yard is neatly mowed and the tulips pop like Starbursts. Tomato plants and potted herbs are clustered at the edge of the yard.

As I approach the house, I can hear voices coming from the backyard. An old golden retriever with gray whiskers naps on the porch. I climb the steps and discover Jeremiah lounging on a swing with his leg propped up. I didn’t know he wore glasses—they make him look sort of rugged geeky. He’s drinking an iced tea and reading the comics page from the Sunday paper. A thick ace bandage is wrapped securely around his ankle; his other foot is bare. I’ve never seen his face so smooth before. Did he shave for church this morning?

Glancing up from his newspaper, he smiles at me and takes his glasses off, hooking them in the neck of his T-shirt. “Annie.”

He sets his tea and comics on a side table and makes a grab for his crutches.

“No, no, don’t get up,” I say, waving a hand. He leans back against the swing, all the while scanning my jean shorts and tee I changed into after work.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says, folding his arms behind his head.

“Well, you did say it would be a mistake to miss your mom’s fried chicken.”

He laughs. Then there’s a long silence. I squat to scratch the dog’s ears. Its collar reads
Maggy
. Her eyes blink open and she sniffs my flip-flops.

“Thank you for helping me with my foot yesterday,” Jeremiah says. “I would be a wreck next weekend if not for you.”

“What is this big race?” I ask.

“The Sparta Marathon reenactment over in Sparta. It attracts a lot of runners because sometimes people wear gladiator clothes. First prize is five thousand dollars.”

“Holy crap. Were you supposed to win or something?”

He waves a hand. “Nah. But I might could come in third or fourth, or win my age group. And there’s money in that. Five hundred or so. I make most of my cash at races. Matt doesn’t pay all that well.”