Breathe, Annie, Breathe

by Miranda Kenneally

  “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 t
hem 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.”

  Then why does he want to work for his brother? Just to spend time with him?

  “And this is how you make money?”

  He smirks. “It’s better than working at McDonald’s.”

  “But you’re hurt…” I look at his bandaged ankle.

  “I’ll take care of my foot all week, and I’ll be just like new for the race. I run through injuries all the time.”

  “You really just run for money?” I ask.

  “I love it too,” he says. “I love any kind of rush…hang gliding, BASE jumping…” He pauses to take a slow sip of tea. A grimace flashes on his face, but I doubt it’s ’cause the tea is bitter. I can smell the sugar.

  That’s when the screen door opens and a little girl with Jeremiah’s light brown hair appears. She rushes over to him and he kisses her forehead. It reminds me of how my brother kisses my forehead and takes care of me.

  “You brought a girl over?” She gapes. Before Jeremiah can respond, she sticks a hand out to me. “I’m Jennifer, Jeremiah’s favorite sister.” I smile at how direct she is.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Where’s our fried chicken?” Jeremiah interrupts teasingly.

  “I got it, I got it. Hold your horses,” she says. “Who’s your friend?”

  “I’m Annie.”

  She swivels to face Jeremiah. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “Mind your own business! Go get our chicken, munchkin.”

  His sister bursts out laughing, clearly pleased she’s gotten under her brother’s skin. I remember teasing Nick like this when he first started bringing girls around.

  Jennifer darts back into the house with Maggy the dog loping after her, leaving me alone with him. It’s peaceful out here. The wind blows lazily, jingling the wind chime and rustling the grass. I breathe the warm air in through my nose. This house has no memories of my life, of high school, of Kyle. This place is just blank. I like that, the feeling of nothingness.

  Jeremiah pats the seat next to him. I sit down and sway back and forth on the swing, listening to church ladies bustling about the backyard.

  The screen door swings open and a woman appears on the front porch. “Jeremiah, your sister said—” She takes one look at me, one look at him, then rubs her eyes. I sneak a glance at Jeremiah. He’s gazing at her head-on.

  “Mom, this is my friend, Annie.”

  Oh, we’re friends now?

  Then Matt crashes onto the porch, throwing me a worried glance. “Mom, I need to talk to you. Now.”

  She gives me another look, then disappears inside. Matt nods at his brother and me before following his mom. What happened to southern hospitality? If this were Kyle’s house, his mother would’ve offered me lemonade and invited me in to chat about my college plans and my work at the Roadhouse. Jeremiah’s mother didn’t even say hello.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  He plays with the glasses hanging from his shirt collar, hesitating. “My summer break from college started a few weeks ago and I moved back in. My mom didn’t want to let me live here again…but Matt convinced her I won’t upset her.”

  I can’t imagine my mother not wanting me to come home. “How would you upset her?”

  “She just didn’t want me around my little sisters until I figured some stuff out…and, well, my family’s too important to me to fuck everything up again…”

  I’m not sure I want to know what’s going on. I have enough to deal with. But what could it be? Drugs? No, he’s too athletic for that. Steroids? He doesn’t look totally muscle man.

  When the screen door opens again, Mrs. Brown gazes down at Jeremiah’s injured ankle, then approaches me with an extended hand. “Hi, Annie dear. So nice to meet you.”

  “You too, ma’am,” I say.

  “I’d love to talk but I have guests.” She gestures toward the backyard.

  “No problem, nice meeting you,” I reply as she leaves as quickly as she arrived. What in the world? I mean, clearly Matt intervened, but what did he say to her? And why was she so distant and somewhat rude at first?

  Jennifer comes out of the house balancing two paper plates loaded with chicken legs, mac ’n’ cheese, and biscuits. Jeremiah rewards his little sister with another kiss, and she runs off toward the back of the house.

  “She’s sweet,” I say.

  Jeremiah bites into his biscuit. “She’s only nice to me because I’m her ride to ballet.”

  I smile at how much he loves her, then take a bite of fried chicken. I groan as it melts in my mouth.

  “It’s good, huh?” he says, and I nod. We chow down in silence. A freight train chugs by in the distance, and when the sound dies away, I hear him clearing his throat.

  “I didn’t just invite you over to say thank you for yesterday,” he says softly.

  “I know. You invited me for fried chicken.”

  He looks up at me and shakes the hair out of his eyes as he chews. He swallows and takes a deep breath. Wow. I didn’t figure a guy like Jeremiah ever got nervous. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened between us on the trails last month.”

  “It’s fine—”

  “No, it’s not. I let things get out of hand…” Since when do guys fess up for having one-night stands? Or in our case, a one-morning stand. Does that mean he didn’t want to hook up with me? That makes me feel relieved…and a bit let down at the same time.

  He drags a hand through his light brown hair. “After what happened between us, I was a little freaked out but really happy, and I asked Matt about you. Yeah, he doesn’t want me dating any of his clients, but I wanted to ask you out anyway—you’re totally worth the risk…and then he told me why you’re running a marathon.”

  I don’t want him to spoil this peace I’ve discovered here. A place that has no memory of Kyle. “Jere, don’t. What happened between us was my fault. Please stop talking.”

  He holds up a hand. “Let me just get this out. I’m so sorry, Annie. I’ve felt like shit since that day. I feel like, I dunno, I used you or something.”

  “You didn’t. It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not.

  He stretches his leg out and flexes his ankle. Then he speaks quietly, “I’ve thought a lot about you since we kissed…Honestly, I’ve thought a lot about you since the moment we met—”

  “You didn’t call,” I say bluntly.

  He nods sheepishly. “I wanted to ask you out. I couldn’t stop thinking about you—you don’t know how many times I started to text you but didn’t push send…I figured you were madder than a wet hen that I didn’t call, but my brother said I’m
the last thing you need right now…It sucks what happened to your boyfriend.”

  I look up at him. People usually say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and I get so sick of hearing that. It’s nice hearing Jeremiah tell the truth: it sucks. That’s all there is to it. Living with a hole in my life blows.

  We finish our food, then he takes my paper plate and sets it on the little, wobbly table with his iced tea glass and newspaper. He looks at me sideways. “So if I were to call you—”

  “You already did call me, remember? You woke me up at the ass crack of dawn and somehow convinced me to come check on you and your foot.”

  He grins. “But if I called you for real…”

  I clutch the swing, thinking of what happened on the banks of the Little Duck, how Jeremiah’s lips and hands set me on fire. But he waited an entire month to give me this speech. What if he waits another month before calling me again? Not to mention he’s into extremes and has that big scar along his jaw. That’s the last thing I need right now. I need white bread. I need vanilla. I don’t need a guy who hurts himself running on an injured ankle.

  Speaking of extremes, I’ve seen Jeremiah naked, but this is only, like, the fifth conversation I’ve ever had with him. And the first real one. He is the weirdest guy I’ve ever met.

  Jeremiah scooches closer on the swing, and with a finger and thumb, he lifts my strawberry blond braid and brings it to his lips. Does my hair smell like onions from the Roadhouse? He shyly presses his forehead to mine and his warm breath sends tingles down my neck. God, he smells good, like cologne and boy and the sun.

  God, he’s making a move on me. I’m not ready for this with anybody. Plus, we’re not even alone. His little sister and dog are buzzing around. Not to mention his mom has a bunch of church ladies over. I press a restraining hand to his chest. “I can’t do this right now.”

  “So I shouldn’t call you then?”

  “You already did, genius.”

  “But for real…”

  I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know if I want to get close to somebody ever again. “Maybe. I don’t even know you. I need time…”