Pep Talks (Pepper Jones #4) (14 page)

“Is this what happens when you’re stuck in bed all day?” I ask when she hands me mine.

Gran grins mischievously. “And you thought I was just in there watching soaps, didn’t ya?”

“I could hear the soaps, Gran.”

“A girl like me can multitask,” she answers proudly. “Made one for Dave, too,” she says as she shoves a hat on his head, tugging his little ears through two holes. It’s quite possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, though it only lasts for a second before Dave’s tugging it off his head, disgusted.

“Now, if you win Nationals, you’ll get matching slippers,” Gran announces when we shuffle out later with full bellies and matching hats.

“The slipper socks with moccasin feet?” I ask excitedly. She hasn’t made me a pair since last Christmas, and they’re getting holes.

“You know the ones,” Gran replies.

When we’re outside the apartment, Lexi laughs. “Slipper socks with moccasin feet? Dude, those must be the ugliest socks ever!”

I grin. “They’re more like a hybrid shoe-sock-slipper combo. And yes, they look really dorky. But sooooo comfortable.”

“I’m down to start a new trend,” Kiki says. “Think of crocs. They were and still are ridiculous looking, but everyone in this state’s got a pair, right?”

“Bunny should patent that shit,” Trish remarks, adjusting her hat.

I can’t help staring out the window at the Wilders’ house as we pass it, wondering what Jace is doing right now. I miss him every day, even though I’m trying to maintain a healthy level of anger. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when I run out of it.

I run into Gina on my way out of the bathroom on Monday morning. She’s coming in from the hallway, and she’s dressed in running clothes, her face flushed. When she sees me, she quickly masks the deer in headlights reaction, though we both know she’s been caught.

“Just, do me a favor and don’t tattle on me, okay?” Snarky Gina is in full swing.

“Tattle? I’m just wondering why you’re doing a double workout today. I thought we had this morning off.” I feign a lack of interest, pretending to be only mildly curious.

She hesitates. “I’m not supposed to go to practices for a few days. The medics on Saturday convinced Coach I need a break,” she says disdainfully. It makes me wonder what else the medics said, and if she’s ignoring all of their advice, or just this bit.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t claim to know exactly what she’s thinking, but I’ve overtrained before, and I know that sneaking in extra workouts and not listening to your body’s signals comes with a strong bout of denial. Nothing I tell her will be news. I’m sure she’s heard it all before. She must know that her success at Saturday’s meet will be short-lived if she doesn’t treat her body right.

“I’m worried about you, Gina. A few days’ rest could be really good for you at this point in the season,” I say, trying out this approach. I really want to delve into my own story from last cross season, when I listened to my doctor about resting and came back to win Nationals. But I can tell by the way she narrows her eyes and purses her lips that it would fall on deaf ears. She’s gearing up to give me one of her snide remarks.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry, Pepper. There are plenty of rumors going around that you have your own problems to worry about.”

I shouldn’t let her egg me on, but I take the bait. “What do you mean?” Maybe, by continuing to talk, we can get into a real conversation about what’s going on with her. I can also tell she’s trying to get back to her room so our other roommates don’t catch her.

Gina rolls her eyes. “Don’t you read any running blogs? You passed out in the middle of a race two years ago, you got injured last year, and this year you show up to your first college races skinnier than ever. People think you’re anorexic.”

She watches the color drain from my face. Gina is being cruel right now, and I wonder if this is the real her, or if she’s so deeply lost to her own issues, she’s become someone else entirely. That thought briefly brings Jace to mind.

Gina walks to her bedroom and opens the door. “Look, I’m not trying to be mean. I kind of figured you already knew about it. All I’m saying is, people shouldn’t judge.”

And with that, she closes the door, blocking me out. Googling myself is not something I would normally do, but it’s impossible to quash the curiosity, even if I know it will only make me feel awful. I find a conversation thread on a popular running site with the title question:
does Pepper Jones have an eating disorder?

Okay, so Gina didn’t make this up. The thread started a month ago, and there’s a photo of me from the California invitational. It might just be the angle, but I do look quite thin. The next post compares photos from Nationals junior year with a photo from my second college invitational. There might be a little difference in the tone of my body, but it’s nothing drastic. There are 43 entries, with people speculating that my injury last season might have been a result of anorexia. Of course, it doesn’t help that I passed out in the middle of a race junior year.

The entries don’t bother me like they might have a year or two ago. People say a lot of things that aren’t true on the internet. It sucks, but I’ve dealt with worse things. Compared to what Madeline Brescoll and Savannah Hawkins did, these posts are nothing. They don’t even feel that personal. It bothered me more that my teammates were concerned.

It’s not even that weird to see photos of me in the team butt huggers posted by strangers. I mean, the school’s website is covered in these photos, and I’m sure they show up in other places on the internet.

No, what I find disturbing is that Gina’s read all of these postings. I don’t know what that means.

After one week of making a point to eat healthy, regular meals, my skinny jeans are once again snug like they should be. Nothing to worry about here. I spend most of the day wondering if or who I should tell about Gina running this morning. I’m not sure what it would accomplish if I told one of the captains or Coach. I mean, I know she’d be pissed at me. And Coach and the team captains are already clued in that she’s not entirely healthy.

In the end, I decide it would backfire. She needs friends and people she can trust right now. She probably already feels like we’re all watching her, judging her, as she said. Gina’s twenty years old, no longer a child. Being here for her might be all we can do.

The whole situation brings me back to the fall of Jace’s senior year at Brockton Public, when he fell too deeply into the drug and partying scene. I can’t force people to see their problems or change their ways. I wished I could then with Jace and I wish I could now with Gina. Like I did with Jace, all I can do is be a friend.

As the days go by, and I go from class, to practice, to Gran’s, to meals with the team, the fury fades into bitterness and a deep sadness. Jace is a constant in my head and on my heart, and his presence fills me with both resentment and longing.

I miss his smirk. I miss the way he nuzzles my hair when he hugs me. I miss his laugh when he lets down his guard. I miss how his green eyes flash and darken when he’s angry or turned on. I miss the calluses on his hands and fingers. I miss the way I felt completely loved and protected in his presence. I don’t think I’ll ever feel that way again. At least not from him.

I get to run alone on Thanksgiving morning, and I’m grateful for that time on the trail with Dave. I need to prepare myself for several hours in the same room with Jace. We haven’t spoken since I came by his apartment and found Melanie there, looking far too cozy. Aside from that brief and not-so-pleasant encounter, it’s been longer than we’ve ever gone without spending time together. I’ve been simultaneously dreading and craving this day.

Jim and Jace come over for Thanksgiving every year. I could have asked Gran to make other plans, but that felt weak. I already told Jace he was a coward, and I won’t be accused of hypocrisy. The good news is that Wallace will be joining us. He’s officially Gran’s boyfriend, and I’m cool with it. I’ve met him on a few occasions since her fall in the bathroom, and he seems harmless. He’s smitten with Bernadette Jones and I don’t blame him.

I choose my outfit carefully. Though it’s tempting to wear a pair of jeans I know Jace loves on me, I don’t want to be too obvious. Instead, I go with black jeans and a purple sweater that clings nicely to my hips and chest. I’d normally wear something with more give in the waist, but it’s unlikely I’ll reach the same level of comatose fullness that typically accompanies Thanksgiving Day.

With the walker close by, Gran’s in her element in the kitchen. Despite the effort I put into looking nice, I’ve got on my new pair of slipper socks that Gran gave me this morning. They’re school colors.

“Don’t tell the rest of your team that you’ve got those, young lady. I told them you had to win Nationals to get a pair, but you know I don’t care about that. I only have a few more pairs to go before I’ve got them all done.”

“Jeez, Gran, do you ever sleep?”

“Ah, the whole knitting club has been at it, but I like to take all the credit,” she admits with a wink.

I’m grinning when there’s a light knock on the door before the Wilder men let themselves in. My smile falters as I wipe my hands on my apron and look up. Jace avoids looking at me as he wraps Gran in a hug. He doesn’t turn to offer me the same greeting, but Jim avoids a potentially very awkward moment by hugging me, and then Gran gets them drinks and goes back to busying herself around the kitchen. I finish my own task and happily engage in talks with Jim about the cross season.

Wallace arrives a few minutes later, wearing cowboy boots, worn jeans, and suspenders with a button-down plaid shirt. He’s still got a full head of white hair, which is parted at the side and neatly brushed. The preppy-western-rugged style may or may not be intentional, but it totally works for Wallace. Sometimes when people say someone’s “just got their own style” what they really mean is, “the dude has no sense of style.” Gran and Wallace though, they each have a true style all their own.

Jim and Jace shake Wallace’s hand as they exchange introductions, and I’m surprised to hear Jace say, “I’ve heard a lot about you from Bunny.” Gran mentioned at one point that Jace was calling regularly to check in, and I wonder if that’s continued. I’d hate for him to cut out Gran from his life because of me.

It’s hard not to look at Jace. It’s like fighting a magnetic pull. My eyes are simply drawn to him, and though I try not to stare, I’m processing every detail about him. Having not seen him up close for weeks, the sheer beauty that is Jace Wilder strikes hard. I never have gotten used to it, but when I saw him every day, touched him every day, it didn’t shake me like it is right now. Despite that, I don’t miss the fatigue etched in his handsome features. The sharp lines that sculpt his chin and cheekbones seem more prominent than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

Though I know I should, I find little pleasure in these signs of Jace’s distress. The part of me that was his friend for so many years, that never knew I could have more, simply wants to comfort him and tell him it will all be okay. The pain from losing Annie will lessen with time. It makes me incredibly sad that I almost wish we could go back to that time before we became a couple, when we both squashed any desire for more because we believed it just couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be.

Gran corrals us all to the dining room table, and I smile as I watch her hold Wallace’s arm. “Wally dear, you’ll sit here, next to me. You might be the oldest fella here, but me and Jim won’t be giving up our spots at the head of the table any time soon.”

“Perfectly happy sitting between the Jones girls,” Wallace replies. “I don’t want to get in the middle of two decades of tradition.” It hasn’t been quite that long, but still, despite everything that’s happened between me and Jace, it feels right when we all settle into our familiar seats.

It’s not surprising to discover that Wallace is a fan of Jace Wilder, UC quarterback. Talking football is safe and the conversation flows easily as we shovel heaps of delicious food onto our plates.

“Lotsa talk, boy,” Wallace says. “They’re sayin’ UC might make the Bowl Championship this year.”

Jace’s eyes brighten a bit for the first time all night. “We’ve got a shot, Wallace. But it’s just talk for now. The team’s really focusing on the Conference Championship this year.”

Wallace shakes his head in amazement. “Can you believe the team was one of the worst in the conference two years ago?” Wallace gestures to Jace. “Then this boy comes along and now they’re shooting for a win. It’s somethin’ else.”

My heart swells with pride. The college bowl is like Nationals for football. It’s for the best of every conference. Jace had mentioned over the summer that it was a possibility for the team to go this year, but as the season’s progressed, everyone’s saying that it’s looking more and more likely UC will be selected. Of course, it’s not only Jace who’s turned the team around. His class year was full of top recruits, including his roommate, Frankie Zimmer, who’s one of the best college defensive linemen in the nation. Still, they couldn’t have done it without Jace.

My stomach churns with emotion. Jace is doing well on the field. I knew this already. I’ve followed the team’s season. As his childhood friend, I’m relieved he hasn’t ruined his scholarship or his potential for a football career over his emotional turmoil with his mother. But as his ex-girlfriend, well, that tells me he’s still in control. He’s got a handle on his life, and he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t. A new wave of rejection pummels me as I reach this understanding. I swallow hard to fight the well of emotion that threatens to spill out all over the dining room table.

Would Jace have dumped me whether or not Annie left? As much as I want to believe the answer is no, Jace’s calm and detached manner as he chats football and eats his green beans suggest he is utterly unaffected by my presence. The calm, cool and collected Jace Wilder from high school has returned.

And then I remember that Jace hates green beans. It gives him away. He’s not even thinking about what he’s putting on his plate, or tasting what he’s eating. I try to hide my smile, but the thrill at what this means, that his demeanor is a façade, is impossible to hide.