Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (18 page)

She shuddered, shifting back to lighter topics.

Why had Jude not been available Saturday evening? She hoped he wasn’t a serial dater, someone who had their profile up on so many Internet dating sites that he went out several times a week, each time with a different woman. Thinking of earlier in the week, she realized she’d taken until Tuesday evening to get back to him. Was it possible he’d had his evenings open, but because she’d taken so long to reply, someone else had snapped up his time? Guiltily, she thought about her own split emotions. Crazily, Will had come back into her life. She’d told herself she didn’t want him to. But he’d been her one, true love. Wasn’t it worth feeling a little pain for the chance for it to flower again?

She shifted uneasily. Two and a half years of sickening pain—first sharp, then dull and deadening—didn’t exactly fit the definition of a little pain. If she got back together with him, how could she just turn the page on that chapter and forget it had ever happened?

Back at her computer, she worked on her expense report for the past month while mulling over what she would wear the following evening. The black and white sundress had made an impression on Jude the Friday before, but she couldn’t wear the same outfit twice. There was the burgundy mohair dress from Loehmann’s, the designer warehouse on Broadway in the Bronx that women flocked to from all over New York City; it was the most comfortable yet quietly sexy dress she’d ever owned. But what if Jude was allergic to mohair? She didn’t want him reaching for her, then convulsing in sneezes. The weather was still mild, so a late summer outfit would work best. Getting up to rummage in her closet, a short beep announced another message had come in.

She switched to her personal e-mail account.
[email protected]
had communicated. She sat down with a thud, unsure if she was ready for whatever news he had.

“Moved out last Monday. Staying with friends on the Upper West Side. Are you free for dinner tomorrow? —Will.”

Slamming shut the cover of her laptop, she opened the window near her desk and leaned out. The inky blackness of the treetops of Van Cortlandt Park waved at her silently. They were telling her something, but what?

Was Will going to pursue her until she broke down and took him back? He knew her so well. He had pursued her relentlessly when they’d first met. She’d let him know she’d been impressed with his determination once they’d dated a few months. But that was then, this was now. What had been impressive then, now seemed less trustworthy. She told herself how lucky she was not to have become his wife. If she had, he might now be e-mailing yet another ex-girlfriend, yearning for something that played no part in the reality of the hand he had dealt himself.

Her only defense was that she knew him as well as he knew her. He loved the chase. He was relentless, determined when he wanted something. Will’s problem began when he actually got what he was pursuing. The game was then over, and he wasn’t interested in the next step. He had been the child of privilege, a spoiled boy who’d kicked around at three different colleges, finally graduating at age twenty-six. Ten years later he’d lost every penny of his inheritance from his father in a real estate deal gone bad. Then he’d tossed away Farrah in just one casual phone conversation.

Rich people were like that, she thought. They threw things out when they tired of them. But now he wanted her back. Did that mean he’d learned his lesson? And what lesson would she have learned, if she went back to him?

Nerves atwitter, she knew what she needed to do. A short, fast, hard run would not only clear her head, but firmly recement her in the present moment. “Be here now” was her next favorite motto after “It’s not what happens, it’s how you handle it.” She needed to think on both those maxims while cold, fresh evening air poured into her lungs and pricked her senses.

Changing into her running clothes, she asked herself if she should really be going out for a run in the dark. She knew most would say no. But her heart said yes. She had to be who she was. All she could do to protect herself was to be prepared.

She scrabbled in a kitchen drawer, reaching way in the back, her fingers finally closing on what she was looking for—dog pepper spray, a form of mace legal in New York State. She’d had it for several years, a gift from her tough-as-nails friend Blanca: a Bronx girl, born and bred.

Soon after Farrah had moved to Riverdale she’d confided to Blanca that she was nervous about running home from Tuesday night workouts, which usually ended sometime after eight.

“Girl, don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t run after dark around here,” Blanca had scoffed. “This neighborhood is as safe as they come. But I’ve got something for you that’s going to make you feel as safe as you really are.”

At their next Tuesday night workout, Blanca handed her a small cylindrical object in a black leather holster.

“I want to see this strapped to your waist when we finish our workouts from now on,” she commanded.

“Is that mace?” Farrah stared doubtfully as her friend snapped it onto her waist pack.

“It’s dog pepper spray, same thing.”

“Is it legal?”

“Yes. They call it dog pepper spray because it’s meant to be used on dirty dogs.” Blanca rolled her eyeballs. “Okay, let’s try it now. Pretend I’m some creep and spray me. Just don’t spray me in the face like you would if this were the real thing. Spray my sneakers instead.”

“Blanca, I can’t do this,” Farrah said. She was curious to know what mace was like, but she didn’t want to hurt her friend. Wasn’t it strong stuff?

“Baby, you shouldn’t live in New York City if you can’t do this. Now, spray me. Go!” Blanca reached out and grabbed at Farrah’s left breast.

“Watch it—hey!” Farrah was shocked, then realized her friend was deliberately goading her. There was only one way to stop her.

She pointed at a spot on the ground about two feet from Blanca’s fluorescent green sneaker and pressed hard on the small white button at the top of the dispenser.

“Argh, ugh, that’s my girl.” Blanca released Farrah’s singlet and backed away, choking. “I didn’t think you’d have the balls to do it,” she complimented her.

“Something about your hand near my chest,” Farrah told her, coughing, too. The spray smelled like pepper alright. Way too much of it. Her eyes were tearing, so she quickly moved from the spot she’d sprayed. Blanca was a good friend.

Hooking the pepper spray onto her waist pack, she headed out the door, waving to the doorman, who waved back. It was good to have someone watching out for her. It seemed eminently human. Wasn’t there something odd about thousands of people choosing to live alone all over New York City? She wondered if the high demand for doormen buildings in the city was a result of the natural longing for companionship that so many New Yorkers denied themselves in their quest for careers or self-actualization. She thought back to her lonely hotel room chicken Caesar salads. What was the point of the money, the bonuses, if she just ended up eating dinner alone, night after night?

The air felt crisp, clean, and fresh on her skin. Immediately, her mood lifted. She was baffled, still hurt and more than a little curious. But it was the past beckoning to her, and she’d already been there. It hadn’t treated her well. In less than twenty-four hours, she would spend time with a man who might be part of her future. In either direction, new developments loomed.

She sailed into the night air. A few dog walkers were out, along with the usual giggling college students outside An Beal Bocht. She looked forward to her body transporting her to that familiar physiological state of heightened awareness and unexplained bliss that kept her running year after year. Gulping in the sweet, night air, she picked up speed. Soon, she was pumping her arms, running at the maximum pace that being on the street at night allowed. It wasn’t all out, but it was enough to get oxygen flooding into her lungs, then into her blood stream where red blood cells rushed nutrients and fuel to every part of her body.

After three loops around the block, she’d had enough. She stretched in front of her building, watching the doorman watch her. Heels on the ground, her toes up on the bottom of the bicycle rack, she bounced gently, feeling the stretch in her Achilles tendon. By the time she re-entered her building, she was firmly back in the present moment.

Upstairs she showered, then padded back to her computer, refreshed and ready to battle demons of one hour earlier.

No further messages had come in. She clicked on Will’s message and stared at it once again. “Moved out last Monday. Staying with friends on the Upper West Side. Are you free for dinner tomorrow? —Will.”

At least it wouldn’t be difficult to reply. Quickly, she tapped out an answer.

“Sorry, dinner taken tomorrow evening. Wishing you all the best in your new circumstances. —F.”

Enter.

Done.

She slammed the laptop shut and went into her bedroom to decide what to wear to meet Jude the following evening.

As she rummaged through her closet, she thought if she had to choose between being loved and being in love, she’d take being in love. But she didn’t want her heart broken again. Where was the guy she could be in love with who’d be equally in love with her? Was such a thing possible or was it just a fairy tale retold countless times to keep the fire in romantic hearts akindle? God couldn’t have put that desire in human hearts without there being at least a chance for some to experience reciprocal love.

A long forgotten burnt orange, red, and white silk top with leaf designs on it caught her eye at the back of the closet. She’d last worn it on a summer cruise two years earlier. It was a deceptively modest blouse, one that clung to curves easily in the slightest breeze. Pulling it out, she held it up to her torso in front of the walnut cheval mirror in her bedroom. Nice vied with spice, an ambiguous combination. It matched the way she felt.

Then she thought of Jude Farnesworth’s fingers on her neck and the feeling of ambiguity vanished, along with all thoughts of Will.

J
UDE GLANCED OVER
at Farrah in the seat next to him on the drive to Greenwich. She looked good in the autumn foliage sort of top she wore. Trying not to be obvious, he eyeballed the curve of her left breast under the thin fabric now whipped back against her torso from the breeze coming in the open front windows of the car. If she only had any idea how revealing that blouse was, he chuckled to himself. Some girls were so cute. Especially ones who were unaware of how sexy they really were. Greenwich women right down to the high school girls tended to know what kind of effect they were making on a man. They were all so studied.

“Enjoying the breeze?” he asked.

“Yes. You too?”

“Definitely.”
You have no idea how much, woman. No idea.

Farrah was nestled back against the headrest, her chin tilted up. Good God, were the tips of her breasts pointing upward too? How many women really had those kinds of small, perfect breasts? He’d seen them in magazines and on women in French films. But never in real life. He’d better stop thinking about it before he crashed the car.

Reaching over, he fiddled with the CD player. If he didn’t watch it his arm would brush up against the leaf pattern on her blouse, with that perky, pulchritudinous mound hiding underneath. Then he really would drive off the road.

Carefully, he extracted a CD and loaded another one in. “Easy boy, easy. Deep breaths, deep breaths.” What was it about women that drove men mad? He didn’t doubt that Adam had taken the apple from Eve. She’d probably been wearing some sort of leaf outfit when she’d handed it to him. When she’d moved in one direction the leaves had moved in another.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she said, looking over. An amused smile played on her lips. She was probably psychic, too. Another female attribute against which men had no defense.

“Huh?” he gulped.

“I said, what are you thinking?” She smoothed the folds of her skirt over her legs, revealing two taut lines made by her thighs. That was another thing. Everything women wore on dates was designed to drive men insane. It would be a miracle if he could get through dinner without attacking her. The thought of a solid wood table hiding the bottom half of her from sight comforted him. But still, there was the problem of her breasts in that skimpy leaf blouse.

“I—uh—was just thinking about whether you’d like the CD I just put in.”

“I can’t hear anything because the windows are down.”

“What?” Jude couldn’t hear what she said, he was so distracted by trying not to look at any part of her.

“I said I can’t hear you,” she shouted. “Should we roll up the windows?”

“Sure.” Jude rolled up both windows from his side. His car was conveniently equipped with master controls to the left of the driver’s seat. Perfect for successful date nights. He hadn’t had too many lately. Only one in recent memory.

The thought of the Friday before last stole over him, his fingers remembering the feel of her smooth, polished skin. Discreetly, he stroked his steering wheel.

“That’s my street down there,” he pointed to the left as they drove down East Putnam Avenue, also known as the Post Road. It was the same road Paul Revere and other mail carriers had ridden over from New York to Boston and back in the postal service’s early days.

“Really?” Farrah looked interested. “What’s that big building at the corner?”

“That’s Greenwich High School. My place is right next to it. My landlord’s place, that is. I’m in the pool house on the property.”

“Must be fun to live in a pool house.”

“It’s cozy.”

“Do you feel like you’re on vacation all year long?”

“Something like that.” He felt like he was on vacation right now, with her at his side.

In a minute the sign for La Cantina came into sight. It was Greenwich’s only Mexican restaurant and not the best one Jude had ever come across. He counted on its romantic, dark interior with banquette seating, awesome sangria and live music on weekend nights to make up for the less than amazing food. He’d be happy just to talk to Farrah although he’d like to dance with her, too.