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?