Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (7 page)

“You’re right. The trick is to keep it short and to the point. Give him your available dates and sign off.”

“I’d rather wait until he calls again.”

“You rejected him when he called to ask you out. Why should he call again?”

“I just said I’d let him know sometime soon.”

“Exactly. So now he’s waiting for you to do what you said.”

“Huh.” Farrah hadn’t thought about that. She’d said whatever came into her mind just to get off the hook at that moment.

“And another thing.” Blanca wasn’t about to let her go.

“What?”

“Don’t go on about needing organic milk in your coffee when he takes you out to eat.”

“I just asked if I could get organic, 2 percent fat milk in my coffee.”

“Exactly. Lay off the fancy-pants stuff, or you’ll never hook up with anyone.”

“But I care about what goes into my body. Don’t you?” Farrah was getting worked up.

“Yes. But not in a restaurant in front of a guy you just met who might be interesting. He’ll think you’re a crackpot.”

“Then why did he call and ask me out?” Farrah huffed, her arms on her hips.

“Because he also thought that you were hot. Just don’t go on and on about that kind of stuff, if you get together with him for dinner. Guys hate that crap.”

Farrah swallowed hard. It was true. She tended to be fussy about ordering when she went out. Her girlfriends teased her about it frequently.

“Okay, Ms. Brown Rice is Nice. I’ll just order a burger and brewski or something like that.”

“Brown rice is nice, and so is my husband. Believe me,
chica.
We wouldn’t be married if I’d let him know how fussy I am about food when we were dating. I was too busy looking at his hands.” Blanca’s husband’s nickname was Big Bill.

“You’ve got a filthy mind, girl,” Farrah lightly squeezed her arm.

“Thanks. Get your mind off organic milk and into the gutter.” Blanca gave her a wink, licked her lips, and then sauntered off into the night sky, her rhinestoned-barrette flashing as it caught the light from the streetlamp.

Farrah watched her walk away, hips swishing as she moved. She could imagine how her first meeting with Big Bill had gone. She’d probably reduced him to silly putty in under five minutes.

Turning to go, Farrah glanced up at the lights twinkling from the platform of the elevated train. They were signaling to her they wanted to take her somewhere new. But she was going to have to get on the train first. Gathering up her last ounce of energy, she broke into a slow jog up the hill toward Riverdale and home.

T
HE TEXT WAS
short: “Can we talk?” Her breath catching in her throat, Farrah texted back, “Yes,” knowing she shouldn’t. Three years had passed. He was married. Yet the same old feeling squeezed her in the pit of her stomach.

A minute later, her phone rang.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She wasn’t going to say his name. Why should she? It was better not to breathe life into that one syllable.

“How’s everything?” His voice was the same. Smooth, polished, urbane. All the things she wasn’t but aspired to be.

“Fine.” She couldn’t choke anything else out at the sound of his voice.

“So what have you been up to?” he asked silkily.

“I’m in sales now.”

“You stopped teaching?”

“Yes. About two years ago.”
After you left, and I decided to leave my old life behind.

“Working for a good company?’

“Very. I travel a lot.” Why had she told him that? And what did he want? To torture her? Re-open a wound that had almost healed?

“Do you like travelling?” Same old Will. Immediately ready for critical assessment.

“I did for awhile. It’s starting to get old.”
And now that I’m over you, I want to stay put more.

“Yeah. Things can get old fast sometimes.”

“What things?”
Will.
She’d almost said his name. It was so easy to say. But she wasn’t going to. This conversation had to remain where it belonged. In the call out-of-the blue from an old boyfriend category. Why did that category exist anyway? Did it do anyone any good?

“Huhh—That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes?—”
I’m not running a helpline, just to let you know.

Silence.

“I’m not going to guess, Will.” Oops. She’d said his name. “Just sketch it out for me.” Hadn’t she just decided to move in a new direction by making plans with Jude? How could the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s voice derail her so suddenly?

“I—may have made some mistakes.”

“Mistakes
with
me or
after
me?” As much as she wanted to keep her voice level, it rose.

Silence again. Then, it came.

“After.”

“I see.” She didn’t, really. But she knew Will well enough to presume he was now second-guessing himself about his marriage. “So what can you do about it?”

“I need to re-think this whole marriage thing.”

“Not your tea bag?’ Why had she slipped back into their old code phrase?

“In this case, no. Not my tea bag.” It had been a joke between them. Whenever they’d discussed questions of taste, Will would say “not my tea bag” when something wasn’t to his liking, which had been frequently.

“Not much you can do about it now.”

“Well—that’s why I’m calling.”

“Come again?” She used the phrase deliberately to put some space between them. He had hated it.

“Farrah, don’t say that. It sounds ridiculous.”

“Don’t tell me what to do anymore. Just tell me why you’re calling.” She willed herself not to sound shrill. There was no reason to let him get under her skin.

“It seems there’s a certain—uh—window of opportunity with my situation right now. So I wanted to find out how you’re feeling.”

“About what?”

“About—uh—me.”

“We haven’t spoken in three years, and you’re asking me how I’m feeling about you?” He had an incredible nerve, a quality she’d always admired in him, until she’d loathed it.

“I—I thought maybe you might have thought about me from time to time.”

“And what about you? Have you thought about me from time to time?”
Keep it low and smooth girl. Smooth and cool as silk.

“I have.”

“You know my mother used to say something her own mother used to tell her.”

“What’s that?”

“You made your bed, now lie in it.” If only she felt half as fierce as her words. Instead, her heart pounded at the sound of Will’s polished voice. He was so refined; so everything she wasn’t, yet wanted to be.

“Listen—Farrah—can we get together for a drink? So we can talk about this in person?”

“I still don’t understand what we’re supposed to talk about. Your marriage? I don’t really want to know anything about it.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she wanted to put up a strong front.

“I’d like to see you so I can explain a few things in person.”

“Did I ask you for an explanation?” In fact, she did want an explanation—an explanation of why he’d broken up with her so inexplicably when everything had been going so right.

“Not just an explanation. I just want to see you again and—let you know about a—a development that’s come up.”

“I’m not a punching bag, Will.” Strike two. She’d said his name again.

“And I’m not a pugilist.”

Arch-toned Will had been the man she’d loved and desperately wanted. He’d represented everything sophisticated and civilized in her life that she hadn’t started out with back in Jackson Heights, Queens. A pugilist was someone who liked to fight. She hadn’t known that before Will had introduced her to the word.

“Unless you have something new to tell me, I see no point in meeting,” she said weakly, resolving to e-mail Jude the second she got off the phone and firm up their dinner plans. It was time to take charge of her new life, not slip back into the uncertainty and heartbreak of her old one.

“I do have something new to tell you.” Will was relentless, just as he’d been when he’d pursued her at the start of their relationship.

“I have something to tell you, too. I’m not up for being your sounding board either.”

“That’s not it.”

“Okay, then what?” God, if his wife was pregnant, she would just die. No way did she want to know that.

“Can we meet at the Boathouse Café?”

“When?”

“This Saturday afternoon?”

“I’m busy.” She wasn’t.

“Sunday afternoon?”

“I’m flying to Phoenix for work.” She paused. “Okay. Maybe I can move some things around Saturday. What time?”

“Say around four?”

“You’re talking about the Boathouse Café, right? Not the takeout window next to the cafe?” How could she forget one of their first dates, when she’d thought he’d invited her to the upscale Boathouse Café in Central Park, until he led her to the takeout window of the informal snack kiosk next door and bought her a hot chocolate. It had been the first moment it occurred to her he might not be the man he presented himself as. Then, she’d gone ahead and fallen in love anyway.

“Yes, the Boathouse Cafe. My treat. If it’s warm, we’ll sit outdoors.”

She got off abruptly, before she slipped and said his name again.

J
UDE WOKE TO
the sound of his phone ringing. It had been two days since he’d walked out of the meeting with his boss. Bills were pouring in, and the Griswolds had called to say that they needed the pool house for holiday guests between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

There were disadvantages to living on the cheap on the estate of mega-wealthy owners. His landlords changed their plans frequently, and Jude’s position as their tenant was of small concern to them. His rent was less than one quarter of their monthly utility bill. He knew, because the last time he had gone up to the big house to drop off his rent, he’d glanced at the utility bill lying open on the kitchen counter.

As he stared at his on-line bank account, trying to figure out whether to make his car or credit card payment, all he could think about was what an asshole he’d been dealing with Jim, and how he’d probably screwed up the best job he’d ever had. Working as a ghostwriter for an influential financial markets expert with his own TV show had sure beat being a corporate drone, editing equity reports at a financial firm.

The celebrity’s agent had convinced the publishing house that his client’s book franchise would sell like hotcakes. The guy couldn’t put two written words together to save his life, so Jude and a team of other ghostwriters had been hired. Jude’s first project had been called
How to Get Rich.
The second book had been
How to Stay Rich.
Then he’d worked on
How to Regain Your Wealth
which hadn’t done as well. He suspected it was because the title hadn’t been as catchy.

But marrying for money? It was such a scummy idea that the only way he’d consider it was if he could write it for more money in his pocket. Then, it wouldn’t seem so bad. Reaching for the receiver on his night table, he picked up just before voicemail kicked in.

“Hello.”

“Jude?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through hair long enough to let the world know it was wavy. Time to get a haircut.

“It’s Jim. I spoke to Dan.” Had his boss gone to bat for him?

“And—?”

“He’ll cut you a separate deal. You get 50 percent of his royalties on
Marry Money
alone. No other titles. And no word on this to the publishing house. This is between you and him privately.”

“How do I know that he won’t cheat me?” Jude was elated at the offer. But he wanted to be sure it was airtight before accepting.

“Dan’s not like that.”

“Right. He’s a regular Girl Scout.” Dan had gotten his start as a wealth expert using proceeds he’d gained from suing his former employers. They’d settled out of court in what some had whispered was an enormous settlement, due mostly to Dan’s lawyer’s blackmail expertise.

“Okay. I’ll have his agent send you copies of the bi-yearly royalty statements from the publishing house. Will that do?”

“I still need it in writing. Along with Dan’s agreement.”

“You’ll get it.”

“I want 50 percent of everything. Foreign rights, too.”

“The deal is you get 50 percent of domestic after the agent’s fee is taken out. But I’ll ask Dan about foreign rights.”

“Don’t ask. Tell.”

“What’s gotten into you? You must be getting laid these days.”

“Mum’s the word.”

“I need a proposal and an outline from you for
MM
by the end of this week.”

“Marilyn Monroe?” He wasn’t partial to blondes, but if Marilyn had been around, he might have made an exception.

“Marry Money.
Your new project.”

“I need a signed contract with Dan’s name on it before I deliver.”

“Get your ass in here Friday afternoon and you’ll get it.”

“Then, you’ll take me out for a beer?”

“Your balls have gotten bigger than your head. You’re lucky no one else was around to work on this. Watch yourself, man. There are plenty of ghostwriters out there who’d drink piss to work for Dan Perlstein.”

“You’re definitely buying.”

“You’re an asshole. Be here Friday and we’ll see.”

“Thanks. You too, Jim.” He hung up.

Jude got up and ambled into the kitchen. He flicked on the coffeemaker, then threw open the French doors to the back deck.

He’d done well.
How to Marry Money
would sell a million copies, and he could live off the royalties without having to live down a reputation as its author. It was going to be a good day.

How should he get started? He filled his Fairfield University coffee mug and sat out on the back deck to come up with a plan. He’d research rich friends in the Greenwich area, both male and female, many of whom were proven experts on the subject. Information gathering would require expensed lunches and investigative reporting at top galas and benefits. He could enlist Ginny Slade as head of his research committee. By the time the book came out, he’d have her married off, and she could go on TV talk shows, praising the book’s merits to the sky, all the while gesturing with a glittering, rock-laden ring finger—a win-win situation all around.

Then he laughed at himself. Ginny would never go on a talk show for any reason, especially not to talk about life’s crass necessities. She was the real thing, unlike Jude; a blue-blooded, well-born Yankee, who didn’t talk about money—neither hers nor her friends. He’d leave it to Dan Perlstein’s publicist to plug the book once it came out. He was a brash New Yorker who’d make
How to Marry Money
sound like the next best read to the Bible.