Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (6 page)

But then, she’d tripped. Was it a metaphor for her life? Sighing, she moved past the newsstand.

“American Airlines flight number 384 to Baltimore will now begin boarding at Gate 37,” an overhead female voice droned. She checked her watch. Right on time. Hurrying toward the gate, Farrah told herself that was the last time she’d allow an airport newsstand get the best of her.

The broad shoulders of Jude Farnsworth popped into her mind’s eye. How could she have screwed up their conversation so badly the evening before?

After that fatal conversation with Will, she had never regained her confidence on the phone with a man with whom she felt emotionally vulnerable. The problem had been that she hadn’t seen it coming. Everything had been smooth sailing with Will—warm intellectual and not-so-intellectual banter back and forth, spiced with sexy undertones. Then, wham, “There’s a disconnect sometimes when we talk.” Followed by, “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other so much.” Never had love’s hang glider crashed to earth so quickly.

She would not subject herself to another sucker punch like that. Once in a lifetime was all her heart could take.

What could she do to let Jude Farnsworth know that she would be receptive to a dinner date, after all? Should she text him? Call? She could send him a quick text message while waiting to take off, before the announcement to shut off all electronic devices.

Doubtfully, she eyeballed her phone.

No way. She was wary of e-mailing and texting as a means to get to know a member of the opposite sex. Girlfriends had regaled her with tales of woe stemming from overuse of electronic messaging early on in a budding relationship. She knew how easily messages from a potential romantic partner got forwarded to giggling girlfriends, then dissected, until whatever dignity the contents contained ended up shredded to bits. She would take her time and wait until she was certain of her tone before responding to Jude. But while she boarded, she couldn’t help but think of his navy blue eyes flickering over her.

Leaning back against her headrest, she gripped the arm of her seat as the plane took off down the departure runway. It was time for more than just another business flight to take off in her life.

T
WO DAYS LATER,
Farrah was back home. It hadn’t been a bad trip, as business trips go. Her meetings had gone well, and she’d been able to set up a new account with a large doctor’s practice. Often, the fact that she was a runner helped her establish common reference points with doctors she met. Some of them actively ran, while others were former runners whose demanding jobs had taken over their free time.

When she had left teaching, Farrah had vowed not to let anything take over the space she’d carved out for her running schedule. Running wasn’t just something that kept her in shape. It was her mental armor, buffering her from any and all slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that came her way. Hamlet was one of Farrah’s least favorite of Shakespeare’s characters—too indecisive, but the words the playwright had put in his mouth resonated. Her childhood had been filled with wounds from such arrows. She was determined her adult life would not be.

Dumping her carry-on suitcase in its permanent spot by the bedroom door, she changed into track clothes. Tuesday evenings, the club held its speed workouts down at the Van Cortlandt Park track. If she hurried, she had time to jog down the hill from her apartment to get there. If she drove, she’d be forced to circle around for minutes, trying to find parking, time that she’d rather use warming up her muscles in the cool autumn air.

Out on the sidewalk, she jogged past An Beal Bocht, a neighborhood Irish pub that featured Guinness on tap and shepherd’s pie, with live music on weekends. She’d eaten there frequently, catching a quick meal and brew after returning home to an empty refrigerator from yet another business trip. In another minute, she’d passed Gaelic Park, where well-built Irish construction workers forgot their cares for a few hours each week in rowdy soccer matches. It was a little known fact that Riverdale in the Bronx still housed a remnant of the enormous Irish-American community that supplied a dwindling percentage of the laborers in New York City’s construction and housing industries. Her father had been one of them.

Arriving at the base of the hill where Riverdale ended, she crossed Broadway and jogged into the park. An ice cream truck jingled its tunes as the sounds of children calling to their parents in Spanish filled the air. Hispanic teenage boys played handball and basketball, while their girlfriends or female family members watched and chatted with each other.

New York City might be a melting pot, but it was also a salad bowl. Farrah understood both. She herself was the product of the city’s ethnic mingling. People in her neighborhood usually guessed she was half Puerto-Rican, half Irish. They were only half right.

“Farrah! Over here. The gate’s open at this end,” a female voice rang out.

Blanca and Ana gestured to her at the end of the handball court. It was always a challenge to get into the track stadium. Gates and entryways were randomly open or locked, depending on the whims of whichever parks department personnel was on duty that day. It was part of the charm of the park.

Farrah and her teammates had gained entrance to the track in various ways over the years. The most common method was to slip through the chained and padlocked wire mesh gate at one end of the stadium. The chain on the gate typically gapped open about nine inches, allowing slender runners to slip through. The brawnier Irish soccer players were forced to climb over the fence, a manly challenge that they didn’t appear to mind.

“Come on, there’s a doorway open over here,” Blanca yelled, waving a gold-braceleted arm and flicking back full shoulder-length dark brown hair decorated with small red and blue barrettes. As Farrah got closer, she saw they were tiny Puerto Rican flags. She never ceased to marvel at Blanca and Ana’s ability to adorn their running outfits. Neither of them had outgrown the playfulness of girlhood, a quality Farrah admired. Part of the charm of doing speed workouts, after all, was feeling like a ten-year-old again.

“Hey, chicklets. What’s happening?” she addressed them. Blanca gave Farrah a wide smile, her teeth even and white. They gleamed in the burgeoning twilight almost as much as the gold, hoop earrings she wore. The compact Hispanic woman was a gorgeous fifty-year-old. Although she was already a grandmother, she looked as if she’d only recently celebrated her
quinceañera,
the rite of adulthood celebration for fifteen year old Hispanic girls.

For the countless time, Farrah told herself she should start dressing like Blanca. There was something about the Puerto Rican woman’s love of glamour that lifted the spirits as well as the fashion standards of everyone around her. To top it off, Blanca was an excellent runner.

“Any news from that handsome stranger last Sunday up at New Paltz?,” Blanca began, as usual not mincing words.

“Uh—no news for public consumption,” Farrah said, hoping the twilight hid the color she could feel springing into her cheeks.

“Baby, this is family here. Talk to me,” Blanca pressed.

“Isn’t it time for stride outs?” Farrah feinted, hoping to distract her. She looked around for their coach John Boyleston, desperately hoping he would start the workout. He stood several yards away, engaged in conversation with two male runners. She decided to warm up with a slow jog around the track while she waited for the workout to begin.

“So has he called yet?” Blanca fell into stride alongside her. Like a dog with a bone, she wouldn’t relinquish the topic of Farrah’s dating life until she’d gotten some meat.

“Maybe.” Farrah sprinted ahead, but Blanca easily caught up with her, Ana flanking her other side. She was trapped between two of the clubs biggest yentas. By the time they made it around the track once, she’d be mincemeat, every scrap of her private life dissected—and likely ridiculed.

“What’s ‘maybe?’ Did he ask you out?” Blanca pressed, practically breathing into Farrah’s face, her arm bangles jangling in the cool breeze that signaled the approach of night.

“That’s my business, not yours.” Farrah tried shutting the door.

“Until I’m at your wedding, crying my eyeballs out, it’s my business, too,” Blanca shot back. She wasn’t a good friend and running partner for nothing. “He was
simpatico, chica.
Very easy on the eyes.”

“Did you see his chest in that tight little T-shirt he was wearing?” Ana put in on Farrah’s other side.

“Back off, ladies. This is a workout, okay?” Farrah tried to speed up, but Blanca blocked her with her compact body.

“Baby, we’re going to work you over until you dish,” she said.

“Not now, you’re not.” Cutting to the right, she moved around Ana, then sprinted ahead. For the moment, she was free of their questions. For a warm-up, this had turned into a race against yenta torture. She’d be exhausted before the actual workout began.

“Okay, guys, let’s get started,” John called out, to Farrah’s relief. She angled to get away from Blanca and Ana, hiding on the other side of the almost six-foot tall form of Libby Jones. Whispers, then laughter floated toward her from her friends’ direction.

“We’re going to build a pyramid tonight. We’ll do two 400s, an 800, a 1200, an 800, then finish up with two 400s again.”

Groans and grunts of disapproval greeted him on all sides.

“Guys, it’s an easier workout than usual, if you add it up.” Farrah knew John was perfectly aware that everyone grunted and groaned, no matter what type of workout he announced. It was part of the trash-talking team spirit of the group, like being hounded about one’s love life by Ana and Blanca. Blanca was right. Their track club was like family.

“Okay, let’s get going. Two sets of stride outs to get started,” he called out. “Ready—go!”

Farrah took off, using long lean strides, low to the ground. Stride outs were part of the warm-up and cool-down for the workout, designed to stretch out runners’ thigh muscles. They strode out for the first half-length of the track, then slowed to a recovery jog for the remaining half.

“So, are you going to see him again?” Blanca asked, sidling up to Farrah after the group passed the 200-yard mark, halfway around the track.

“If I say ‘Yes,’ will you stop bugging me?” Farrah asked, her smile belying her harsh words. Blanca was a dear friend. She had helped her move almost three years earlier, lugging boxes up and down three flights of stairs from Farrah’s tiny Manhattan studio apartment to the spacious new one-bedroom she’d found in Riverdale. She had laughed herself silly over Farrah’s description of Will after the break up, referring to him ever after as Farrah’s ballet boy. It had made Farrah laugh, too, although her heart had hurt.

“Only if it’s true,” Blanca responded.

“Okay. It’s true. I’m going to see him again.”

“When?”

“Next month.”

“Next month? Why are you waiting ’til next month? Do you know how many women he could meet between now and next month?” Blanca demanded.

“I’m going to do Leatherman’s Loop. He’s running it, too.”

“That’s a race, not a date!” Blanca snorted in disgust. “What about a date? Didn’t he ask you out?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know what to say.”

“That is so lame.” She shook her head. “You say ‘Yes!’ How hard is that?”

“Because I don’t know him well enough. That’s why,” Farrah yelled. She hadn’t meant to get steamed, but Blanca was beginning to get on her nerves, pestering her with the exact same question she had been asking herself for the past two days. She sprinted to her water bottle, hoping for the next set of stride outs to begin.

“Okay, gang. Last set of stride outs,” their coach cut in. “Ready—go!” His command sliced through the cool gloaming.

They flew off, silence descending on the group once more. This time, Farrah slowed her pace. Blanca wouldn’t pester her until she’d crossed the 200-yard mark. Maybe she should ask her friend for advice on how to reopen the dialogue with Jude. It would give Blanca something to chew on.

“So, what if he doesn’t show up at Leatherman’s Loop? Then what are you going to do?” Blanca resumed, back at her side.

“Look—if I ask you for some advice, do you promise not to ask any more questions until the workout’s over?”

“Okay,
chica.
What do you need to know?” Blanca smiled slyly at Farrah.

“I don’t know why I didn’t say yes when he asked me out,” Farrah confessed. “But I want him to ask me again. How do I get him to do that?”

“You mean you’ve already blown it? So now what do you do?” Blanca spelled out, assessing the situation accurately.

“Yes. And don’t talk to me until we’ve finished, okay? You’re messing up my concentration,” Farrah said, trying to sound firm.

“Gotcha.” Blanca put a finger on her lips, a Cheshire cat smile on her face. She turned away, clearly mulling over Farrah’s problem.

Twilight deepened into night as the workout progressed. Soon, the twinkling lights of the shops on Broadway and on the elevated platform at the end of the No. 1 subway line lit up the skyline. There was something homey and comforting about the Bronx. It wasn’t fancy. Instead, it was bustling and lively, filled with people from all parts of the world who worked hard and enjoyed simple pleasures.

Farrah found herself gasping for breath at the end of each segment. As much as it pained her now, later she’d sleep like a rock. That is, if thoughts of how to resume a dialogue with Jude didn’t keep her awake. Finally, the workout was over. Two final stride outs ended it. It was time for the twenty or so runners to head home to their families and evening routines.

“Okay,
chica,
I’ve got it.” Blanca said, coming up alongside her. Ana was nowhere in sight.

“What’s that?” Farrah stood with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath.

“You call him. And tell him you looked at your schedule and want to let him know when you’re free for dinner.”

“That’s too obvious,” Farrah objected. “Besides, I don’t have his phone number.”

“What about his e-mail address?”

“I’ve got that.” Farrah looked at Blanca doubtfully. “But e-mailing has a way of screwing things up. Especially when you don’t know someone well.”