“I can do that.”

He gives me a smile. I’m guessing he doesn’t know.

“Ready for another sprint?”

I shake my head. He shakes his head back at me. “Let’s go, Annie. Pick it up.”

I jet forward through the dogwood trees. Matt stays with me the entire sprint, urging me on. We do three more sets of bursts. They make my chest ache like crazy—my heart doesn’t like the repeated starts and stops. Somehow I make it to the finish line, and with sweat dripping down my face, I kneel to the ground.

“C’mon, Annie,” Matt says gently. He helps me to my feet. “You did great. Seriously great.”

I roll my shoulders and swallow. I glance around to see if Jeremiah’s here. He’s not.

Matt squeezes my arm. “Relax. Let all that tension out.”

Let go, I tell myself.

Let go.

•••

I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up again.

I had to stop two times on the way home to vomit by the side of the road. I kneel and clutch the toilet seat, breathing deeply. I get sick again. Then again. Why is my stomach so screwed up? Those sprints today made me feel worse than when I first tried to run around the track, when Coach Woods caught me running like a baboon. At least I took those ibuprofen. How bad would I feel if I hadn’t?

The bathroom door creaks open to reveal Mom standing there with a towel. She squats next to me and pats my back as I get sick. The lactic acid built up under my skin makes me feel tingly, and not in the good way. If I can’t even run nine miles without feeling this awful, how in the world will I make it to twenty-six?

“Did you finish your run?” she asks quietly, patting my face with the towel.

“Yeah. Nine miles.”

“Wow. He would’ve been proud of you.”

“Mom, don’t. Not now.”

I feel her tense up next to me, and we both look away. I hear her sniffle. I feel bad for snapping at her, I really do, but does she have to bring Kyle up now?

“I can’t help it,” she says. “I just know he would’ve been amazed. Never talking about him isn’t healthy, sweetie. You need to let it out.”

I lean against the toilet, resting my head on my arm.

“I’ll call Stephanie,” Mom says quietly, brushing the hair out of my face. “I’ll tell her you won’t be at work tonight.”

“No!” I blurt, and then I get sick again. I clutch the toilet and hate my stomach. Hate it. “I need the money.”

“You can’t wait tables like this. People like it when their waitresses are healthy.”

She’s right. If I show up at work all sweaty and red faced and getting sick every two minutes, Stephanie won’t let me wait tables anyway. But if I don’t go in, I’ll lose out on at least $75 in tips. This is my big moneymaker night!

“Mom,” I cry. “I won’t be able to afford my training. I won’t be able to save money for college. I’ve only got like three hundred dollars right now.”

She pulls me over into her arms and hugs me. “I know, baby. But you can’t go to work like this. I wish you didn’t put so much pressure on yourself…I wish I could pay for everything. You know I would if I could.”

I know. I know.

•••

My alarm clock blares like a fire alarm.

I reach over and slam the snooze button. 5:00 a.m. I got off work at midnight, and now I have to drive to Nashville to go run seven miles? Or as Matt and Jeremiah would call it, a rest day.

The alarm goes off again. There’s no way I’ve snoozed for five minutes already! I groan into my pillow.

The aftermath of last Saturday’s run, in which I got sick for four straight hours and missed work, was so spectacularly bad I haven’t run all week. I skipped my three short runs and didn’t ride my bike to cross-train like I was supposed to.

If I run the seven miles this morning, will I get sick and have to call out of work again? I can’t risk missing work again this week…I won’t be able to pay for training, much less the gas to get to training. And what about supplies for college, like new sheets, towels, books, and stuff to cook with?

My stomach hurt so bad last week…I don’t want to feel that pain again.

When the alarm goes off for the third time, I reach over and turn it off, then burrow back under my sheets.

The next time I wake up, it’s to my phone ringing. The clock says it’s 7:05 a.m. Matt’s name flashes on the screen. Shit. I should’ve called him.

“Hello?” I say groggily, picking the sleep out of my eyes.