Breathe, Annie, Breathe
Page 50

“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 looks 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.