Jeremiah glances over at me, smiles, and drags a hand through his hair. He digs his phone out of his pocket of those bright red shorts and checks the screen. “I probably should go. Got an early run tomorrow.”

“But you raced today!”

He shrugs. “I gotta train hard if I want to keep winning.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“What? Run?”

“Do all these crazy races. I mean, I hurt so much after every single long run, and you do them constantly.”

“It’s my job.”

I shake my head, incredulous. “How far are you running in the morning?”

“Ten miles, but then I’m doing a few hours of training on a bike. I’m planning on trying a motocross race soon.”

I’ve heard Nick and Evan talk about those races because they repair bikes down at Caldwell’s. Sometimes people fall off and break their legs. Sometimes they get run over by other contestants. Sometimes they get thrown thirty feet. Sometimes they die.

I sit up straight, my body rigid as a brick wall. “Jeremiah, why would you do that?”

“I have to find new stuff to do.” He pushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and touches my neck.

“You don’t have to do anything,” I say quietly. “Why can’t you just keep doing regular races?”

He starts tapping his foot nervously. “Because they aren’t as much fun for me anymore. I need more. Not even marathons challenge me.”

I clench my fists. “So you don’t think doing the Country Music Marathon is worth anything?”

“I didn’t say that at all,” he replies in a soft voice. “Hardly anyone has what it takes to do a marathon. And you’re tougher than nails. You keep getting faster and faster, and I can tell how strong you are. You are going to pimp the Country Music Marathon’s ass.”

“Uhh.” I mouth “pimp the Country Music Marathon’s ass,” making Jeremiah laugh quietly. “I don’t even know what that means,” I say.

“Neither do I.”

I pinch the top of my nose. Breathe. I care about my friend. I really do. I don’t want to see him hurt. I can’t lose someone else. “I really wish you wouldn’t do this motocross thing. Please, Jere.”

He lifts his knit cap off the floor and puts it on. “It sucks that you’re trying to tell me what to do.”

That makes me feel shitty. But he’s right. I’m the last person who has the right to tell him to change. It’s not like we’re dating.

“But I’ll do it for you,” he says sincerely. He turns his gaze to me, to my lips, and I know what he’s thinking. Me asking this of him will make things a lot more serious between us. Do friends change who they are at their core for each other? That’s not healthy. But neither is motocross…

“You don’t have to quit on my account. I just want you to take care of yourself, Jeremiah.”

“I will.” He pats my hand and stands up to collect Operation. “This was fun. You want to hang out tomorrow afternoon when I get back?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll text you.”

I walk him to the door, where he gives me a quick hug good night, and when I curl up in bed later, I can still smell his cologne lingering in the air.

COLLEGE IS DRAMA

“Let’s get matching sweatshirts!”

“No, Jere,” I say. It’s Sunday afternoon, Jeremiah arrived at my dorm room unscathed, and now we’re at the school bookstore. “We’re here to buy my books.”

He picks up an MTSU snow globe and shakes it. “C’mon. I’ll get a blue one and you’ll get a red one and then we’ll match like old people on the beach.”

“Fine, we’ll get matching sweatshirts as long as yours is pink.”

That shuts him up.

The bookstore is huge and books are piled everywhere. I touch my throat. It’s a little overwhelming. I take my course and book lists from my purse and begin searching through the stacks.

“Here’s your biology book,” Jeremiah says and drops it into the basket he’s carrying for me. Holy crap, it’s $100!

Most of my general education courses this semester involve science and math, but for some unknown reason I have to take an art class. The art history textbook costs $175, is bigger than a large pizza box, and must weigh twenty-five pounds. I place it back on the shelf—I can’t afford that whatsoever. I guess I’ll check online later to see if I can get it for cheap on eBay. Otherwise, maybe I’ll have to find a different type of art class. But paint supplies and brushes and canvas can’t be cheap either.