Breathe, Annie, Breathe

232 Pages·2014·1.22 MB·English

by  Kenneally Miranda

Copyright © 2014 by Miranda Kenneally Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Nicole Komasinski
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CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Today’s Distance: 5 Miles
Today’s Distance: 6 Miles
Today’s Distance: 5 Miles
The Time of Your Life
Part II
CrossTraining
The Fourth Circle of Hell
Today’s Distance: 10 Miles
It’s On
Adrenaline Junkie
Just a Friend
Today’s Distance: 14 Miles
Part III
Move-In Day
Iggy Strikes Again
College is Drama
The Win
A Change of Pace
The Bluegrass Half Marathon
It’s Time
Acknowledgments
Seven Facts You Didn’t Know About Miranda Kenneally
Back Cover
For all the girls looking for a new beginning.
PART I
An Ending
TODAY’S DISTANCE: 5 MILES
Six Months Until the Country Music Marathon
As a kid, I had the worst mile time ever.
Our gym teacher made us run the mile a few times a year for something
called the Presidential Fitness Test. I’d huff and puff and wonder why the hell
President Bush cared how fast I could run laps around the playground. I always
came in dead last.
Most of the boys could run a mile in eight or nine minutes. The girls usually
came in around ten. And there I was, scooting in at over thirteen minutes. Truth
be told, running bored the hell out of me. I’d rather have been doing word
problems.
Today, I’m running five miles along the Little Duck River. If I finish, this
will be the farthest I’ve ever run. I know I’ll finish—there’s no way I can give
up.
Because I’m doing this for him.
At mile 3.5, my running coach rides up next to me on his bike. Matt Brown is
twenty-four and owns a program that trains people to run marathons. Some
people on my team are running because it’s a lifelong dream, some want to lose
weight, and the others, like me, haven’t told anyone why they’re doing this.
“How’s it goin’, Annie?” Matt asks.
“Oo-kkay.” Great. The lack of air is making me stutter. I can’t breathe.
“You’re Jordan’s friend, right?”
If you consider the school’s new football coach my friend. “She s-signed me
up for your program, y-yeah.”
He hops off his bike and pushes it along beside me. I can’t believe he walks
as fast as I run. “You need anything? Water? Tylenol? Vaseline?”
“Vaseline?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, for chafing. Are you having any issues?”
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine a man would ask if I’m chafing.
“No, thanks.”
I shuffle, one foot after the other, trying to run like Matt taught me at the
beginning of today’s session. Keep my toes facing forward. Move my arms back
and forth. Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Pain pierces my
side.
“What’s your pace so far today?”
I glance at my new watch, tempted to lie and say I’m doing nine-minute
miles. “About twelve minutes a m-mile.”
“Not bad. When you’re doing these long runs on the weekend, make sure you
run your miles a minute slower than you usually do on your short runs.”
I can’t imagine going any more slowly than this, but I nod as Matt climbs
back aboard his bike. “See you at the finish line.”
I must’ve accidentally inhaled glue or something when I signed up for the
Country Music Marathon.
•••
I’m at 4.5 miles.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Point my toes.
Check my watch. I’ve slowed to a 14-minute mile. I’m going about as fast as
that cloud, lazily inching across the blue sky. Half a mile to go.
A gorgeous woman with olive-toned skin, bouncy brown curls, and a pink ID
bracelet jogs up next to me. Matt makes everybody on our team wear the
bracelets so he can identify us and get in touch with our emergency contacts just
in case.
“Damn. Our coach is fine.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I reply, sucking in a breath. “He trains us by
making us chase after him.”
The lady chuckles. “You’re probably right.” She speeds up and within the
minute, I can’t see her anymore. Not a surprise. Every time I start running, I get
a great lead, but then it’s like a parachute opens behind me.