The only negative to Matt’s program? In the gym locker room, old ladies just love walking around naked for some reason. I pray that when I’m old, I don’t have any sudden desire to flaunt it.

I hip-check the vestibule door open and head out onto the restaurant floor, passing rusted road signs and paintings of Davy Crockett in his coonskin cap. My boots crunch peanut shells every step of the way. That’s what makes the Roadhouse so famous—we serve free peanuts by the bucket and guys can throw shells at each other, acting like Neanderthals.

I drop beers and Cokes off at one of my four tops and move on to my round. The table seats seven and I generally make big tips off it on Saturdays.

Tonight, Nick is sitting there with a group of friends and their girlfriends. My brother is barely a year older than me and graduated last year, so I know them all from school.

“This is my best table, so you better leave me a good tip,” I tell Nick, and he responds by throwing a peanut at my forehead. That earns him a prompt slap on the arm from his girlfriend, Kimberly. “And you’re not getting any free food either.”

“You’ll serve us beer though, right?” Evan asks.

“Hell no. I’m not losing my job over you.” I open my notepad and pull a pen from my apron. “What do you want to drink?”

“Beer,” Evan says with a wide grin.

I respond by grabbing a handful of peanuts and dropping them on his head.

“Hey!” Evan shakes them out of his shirt as everyone laughs. Nick has been friends with Evan since elementary school, and now they do oil changes together at the auto parts store. Almost all of Nick’s friends stayed in Franklin and didn’t go to college, and now they work at places like the Buchanan Ford dealership and Total Billiards. Kimberly got a receptionist job at a realty company. Nick takes night classes over at the Motlow community college. Compared with the rest of the kids who grew up in the Oakdale trailer park, I’m pretty different in that I’m moving to college this fall and will be living in the dorms.

I take their drink orders for real this time—a round of waters, Cokes, and sweet teas. In the back, I scoop ice into cups and let out a long breath. Today took a lot out of me—the six-mile run zapped me energy-wise while finding Jeremiah attractive hit me guilt-wise. I’m sure he’s a great running coach and all, considering he blasts down those trails like a bullet, but I don’t know that I want to see him again. I need to concentrate on making it through this marathon. But I also liked feeling a spark of something.

“Hey, where are you?”

I glance up to find Stephanie, the manager of the Roadhouse, scanning the floor. That’s when I notice I’ve been pressing the dispenser for so long, ice is tumbling off the counter. I let go of the lever as Stephanie grabs a broom and sweeps the ice over to a drainage grate.

“You okay?”

“I’m good. Just tired,” I lie.

Stephanie gives me her worried-mom look. She learned that expression from my mother—they’ve been friends since middle school. They both work in the retail/hospitality business, so they often get together and bitch about bitchy customers.

“I’m fine,” I say again and press the Coke dispenser to fill the glasses, then evenly distribute them on my tray, add lemons to the rims, and carry the drinks out onto the floor.

I serve Nick and his friends burgers and chicken strips as fast as I can, to rush them away from my money-maker table, but of course they end up staying a couple hours and throw at least five buckets of peanuts at each other. When they finally pay the check, they split the bill four ways. So annoying.

Evan gives me a 30 percent tip but won’t meet my eyes when I say thank you. He just pockets his wallet. “You should come out with us after you get off work. We’re camping at Normandy.”

My face flushes hot. After what happened with Kyle, everybody gave me distance for a few months. But once New Year’s rolled around, life went back to their normal. Guys knew I was single and started asking me out. Did Kyle even cross their minds when I said no?

Anyway, Evan has been acting weird since February, and I’ve been wondering when this would happen. It must’ve taken him a while to garner the guts, and it makes me feel terrible. He’s a good-looking guy: his brown hair hangs to his eyes and he has great arms, roped with muscles from working in the garage. But I can’t.

“No, but thank you,” I reply. “I need to sleep in a bed tonight—I’m so sore from running.”

Evan looks crestfallen. “Maybe next weekend then?”