Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (3 page)

“Thank you,” was all Blanca said. Farrah couldn’t believe it. She’d never seen her friend act coy before. What was going on here? Did Blanca think Jude was a bit of all right? She’d find out soon enough on the ride back, since they’d all come up together in John’s van.

The food came, and talk died down. Farrah attacked her oatmeal, eager to dispel whatever impression she’d given Jude about being high maintenance in the food and drink department. She rued worrying the waitress about the milk. Sometimes, she drove herself crazy with her own fussiness. It had been about the only thing she’d had in common with her ex-boyfriend, and it hadn’t helped their relationship.

“Do you live in the Bronx?” Jude asked.

“Yes. In Riverdale,” she said, referring to the Bronx’s most exclusive neighborhood, running north and south next to the Hudson River.

“Nice area.”

“It’s pretty. But parking is tough.”

“Do you work in the city?”

“Sort of. I’m based in the city, in Midtown.”

“So you take the train in?”

“Yes, when I go into my office.”

“You don’t go into your office every day?”

“No, I go in maybe once every two weeks.” The last thing she wanted to talk about was her job.

“Then what do you do the rest of the time?”

“I don’t go in.” She didn’t mean to be obtuse. But every time she told a man how much she traveled, it ended up being their final conversation.

“Sounds good to me.”

“What do you do?” She kicked herself. She’d just asked the one question she most disliked being asked herself.

“I try not to work. But that doesn’t work most of the time.”

His answer piqued her interest as well as her imagination. It was so different from the way men in Manhattan talked, typically bragging about the 100-hour weeks they put in. As if that could be a turn on.

“I know what you mean,” she agreed, at the same time trying to push Monday morning to the farthest corner of her mind.

“Will I see you at Leatherman’s Loop then?”

“I’ll try to make it.” She was intrigued by the sound of the race.

“I’ll show you some horse country afterward, if you’re interested.”

She nodded, at a loss for words. She loved horses, although she’d never had a chance to ride as a child. There weren’t any stables near Jackson Heights, Queens. Even if there were, her family hadn’t had money to pay for lessons.

“We’ll see,” she finally got out. She made a note to ride up in the team van that day.

“Sure.” This time, she caught his eyes wandering to her mouth, then back up to her eyes.

Suddenly, the diner felt hot and close. She needed some fresh air. Throwing down her napkin, she got up. “I’ll be right back,” she told Jude.

Blanca looked up questioningly, one eyebrow cocked. Farrah shot her a look that said “Don’t open your mouth.” It was like asking a bullfrog not to croak.

Hurrying outside, she gulped in the crisp, cool September air.

He’d more or less asked her out, hadn’t he? Farrah had not gone on a real date since her ex, Will, had disappeared almost three years ago. She just hadn’t felt like it. But maybe this wasn’t an invitation. It was only a date when a man asked for your phone number and then actually called, right?

“Hey, if you give me an e-mail address, I’ll shoot you some info about Leatherman’s,” Jude said, coming up behind her. He ambled down the steps of the diner, then sat on the bottom step.

An
e-mail address? He meant
her
e-mail address. That was a roundabout way to ask for someone’s contact information. She’d find out soon enough what he really had in mind from the tone of the message he sent.

As she scribbled her e-mail address down for him, the smell of dried male sweat with a faint scent of woodchips wafted her way. She was glad she was sitting. The tantalizing scent made her dizzy.

A companionable minute passed. Overhead, the sky was cloudless, a brilliant blue. A large hawk flew by, several hundred feet above them.

“Is that something in its claws?” Farrah asked, peering at it.

“Looks like breakfast.”

She shivered. Then, a large triangular purple sail appeared over the top of Mohonk Mountain.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

“Hang glider. They’re big around here. People come from all over to hang glide off that mountain.”

“Have you ever tried it?” She shaded her eyes to peer at him. The woodchip smell hit her again—she struggled to stay focused.

“I haven’t yet. But I’d like to. What about you?”

“I’ve thought about it. But what if something goes wrong?”

“Something can go wrong anywhere, anytime. If you don’t take a chance, you don’t get the reward when things go right,” he said.

“Okay, but you still haven’t talked me into it.”

“I can’t. Only you can.”

“Huh.” She liked the way the conversation changed size as they spoke. It had gotten bigger somehow, the way the horizon had broadened, rather than narrowed, when he’d answered the question about what he did. She’d found out that he didn’t live to work. Already, their conversation seemed open to limitless possibilities.

A clatter behind them drew her attention. Her teammates were spilling out of the diner and heading down the steps.

“Ready to go?” Ana called to her.

“Ready,” she said, standing and dusting herself off. Her legs were stiff, her body sore. She needed to stretch and then take a long, hot shower.

“See you at Leatherman’s?” Jude asked.

“I’ll let you know,” she replied.

Turning, Farrah joined Ana, Blanca and the others, guessing that Jude Farnesworth was watching as she walked away. Just in case he was, she moved her hips in the faintest of circular motions—Afro-Cuban rhythm they called it in salsa dancing classes. Living in the Bronx, with Blanca and Ana as friends, she knew a thing or two about the right moves at the right moment. For the first time in three years, she felt like this was one of them.

T
WO

B
ack in Riverdale, Farrah spent a lazy, endorphin-filled Sunday afternoon. She loved fall. Everything about the season set her senses on fire. Although September was starting to look more like the end of summer than the beginning of fall these days, the hint of coolness in the evenings told her change was on the way. She liked the transitional seasons far more than the static ones. Winter was winter, summer was summer. But fall and spring were seasons where every day was different. Each morning brought a change to the air, the trees, the plants, and grass. It was exciting just to wake up to see what had happened overnight.

The only thing she didn’t like about September was that it marked the traditional start of the work year, as well as the school year. Not that the work year ever ended, but at least August was a month of long vacations and diminished expectations on the job.

She’d been a pharmaceutical representative for just over two years. When she’d gotten out of school she’d gone into teaching, but it had been difficult in more ways than one. Her first job had been teaching science at John F. Kennedy High School in the Bronx. It was a tough school filled with kids at an even tougher age. Although she’d loved teaching, after two years of exiting and entering a workplace behind concrete barriers and wire mesh fences topped with barbed wire, she’d had enough.

She applied for a job at the prestigious Fieldston School in North Riverdale, and had gotten an adjunct position. Everything about Fieldston, beginning with teaching motivated kids, had been privileged, except for her paycheck. Finally, she’d recognized a cold hard fact—to enjoy the
feeling
of privilege you need to
be
privileged—and she wasn’t.

Her rent on the Upper West Side had eaten up almost half her salary. And she’d still had student loans to pay back. Her adjunct status meant that she paid for her own health insurance and had no retirement plan. She was left with little disposable income.

After the break up with Will, she had been ready to leave behind Manhattan and everything that reminded her of the two years they’d spent together. She’d moved to Riverdale in the westernmost section of the Bronx, along the Hudson River, and joined the Van Cortlandt Track Club. There was no sport as inexpensive as running.

Riverdale wasn’t cheap, though it was nowhere near as expensive to live in as Manhattan, where she’d shared a one-bedroom apartment with three other teachers. After the city, she found the neighborhood quiet, with next to no night life. But between her teaching and running schedules, she was content not to go out five nights of the week, as she’d felt pressured to do in Manhattan.

It turned out her club’s coach worked for one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. He’d introduced her to his boss, who had hired her. For the first time since finishing school, she’d been able to pay off her student loans and credit cards, live in a spacious one-bedroom apartment without roommates, and still have some mad money left over at the end of each month. Assigned to cover the entire Northeast and Mid-Atlantic regions for her division, she was on a plane at least twice a month and away for three to four days at a stretch. It had been a great way to leave behind everything she wanted to forget.

One thing that hadn’t changed from her teaching days was that Sunday night meant the real start of her work week. Scrolling through her office e-mails, she filled in her weekly appointments calendar. Django Reinhardt and his gypsy band was on the stereo, a glass of Chardonnay within easy reach. Under her desk, a rubber basin filled with hot water, Epsom salts, and a dash of lavender oil soothed her feet. She was a hog in hog heaven.

If only the window were open a few more inches. Summer was on the wane, but the afternoon had been hot. She wanted to catch more of the cool night breeze that was barely ruffling the papers on her desk.

Careful not to remove her feet from the basin, she struggled up from her chair, leaned over the desk and awkwardly forced the window up a few more inches. The second she did, a cool breeze wafted in, carrying on it the scent of cedar woodchips.

Check your personal e-mails,
a voice told her. It was as if the wind had spoken.

She switched over to
[email protected]
. Nothing.

Then, she remembered she needed to hit send/receive on the menu to access her most recent messages. After a torturous pause, a pop-up box signaled three messages downloading.

She took a sip of Chardonnay to calm her nerves. Telling herself they were probably all advertising specials from the myriad on-line fashion houses that had targeted her ever since she’d bought a skirt over the Internet at the start of summer, she peeked at the screen.

There was a discount coupon from Boston Brahmins—a website whose targeted market appeared to be females intent on catching the eye of high-flying men in finance. The clothes shouted wanna be rich and already slutty.

Next, an announcement from her credit card company congratulated her on qualifying for a home equity line of credit at a next-to-nothing interest rate. Strange, considering she rented her apartment.

The next message was from
[email protected]
. She jolted, splashing water on the hardwood floor.

“Saying hello,” the subject line read.

For long moment, she stared at the screen, frozen. Then, she clicked on the message.

“Hi. How are your knees? Hope you’ve soaked out all the aches from today’s race. Usually, they don’t set in until a few hours after it’s over. Here’s the link to Leatherman’s Loop. Look forward to seeing you on 10/20, covered in mud. —Jude”

Short and sassy. He hadn’t waited a few days to say hello. He hadn’t even waited twenty-four hours. He had manners. Someone had taught him how not to torture a woman he’d just met.

She clicked on the link. Even though Leatherman’s Loop was only six miles long, it looked like one vicious course. Today’s race had been slightly longer. Accessing the on-line registration form, she filled it out. With a click, she submitted it.

What should she say to Jude? Hitting
reply,
she stared at the screen.

“Hi. My knees look just like they did the day after I got knocked off the teeter totter in preschool. I’m soaking my feet in lavender oil and Epsom salt as I type. I signed up for Leatherman’s. I’ll bring my rubber ducky pool tube for you, in case you fall into the river. —Farrah”

Smartly, she tapped the
send
button. Then, she hit her hands on each side of her head. Had she been too cheeky? Too jokey? Would he think she’d never made it out of junior high school? She hadn’t meant to be a smart aleck, but the culture of her running club had honed her trash-talking skills. This was just a bit of banter between a fellow runner and herself. But was that what she wanted? No. She had set the wrong tone.

Getting up, she sloshed more water on the floor. At the same time, she upset her wineglass. She ran to the kitchen to get a dishtowel.

Then, she thought of something else. Her automatic signature was at the bottom of every e-mail sent from her personal account. Not only did it include her name, but also her home and cell phone numbers. She’d just sent Jude Farnesworth more information than he’d asked for. It was one of the all-time dumbest moves of initial encounters with the opposite sex.

No wonder she hadn’t dated since Will. She had no idea how to do it. Like a deer caught in headlights, she froze every time a reasonably attractive man spoke to her. After the initial panic, she generally knew what to do when she wasn’t interested. She just didn’t know what to do when she was.

The phone rang.

Who was that? Had Jude thought to call her so quickly? Would that be weird? Or exceptionally considerate? Perhaps he’d figured when he read her message that she’d sent her phone numbers for a reason and wouldn’t be pleased to be kept waiting, counting the minutes or days until he called.

Girls did that. And this was a situation in which women revert back to girl-dom. They may pretend to stay active, not hover near the phone or incessantly check for messages, but every single woman’s inner girl holds a timer in her hand, counting down the minutes until the boy she just met calls.