Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers

by Rozsa Gaston

  Still on a high from Sunday’s race, Farrah sat back in the Italian leather armchair in her boss’s office. So be it. She tried to look concerned, as Barbara Feretti studied her.

  “How did your Atlanta appointments go?”

  “Pretty well.” She hadn’t brought in a single new client, although she’d deepened relationships with a few existing ones.

  “So what’s cooking then?”

  “Barbara, it’s hard to pin anyone down right now. They’re all off at Christmas parties or out when I call.” She tried not to sound irritated. The problem was her mind was no longer on her job. It was on her life.

  “Alison’s facing the same situation. Meanwhile she’s brought in two new accounts and increased her largest one.” Barbara turned to take a call, giving Farrah a moment to absorb this new information.

  Who cared? It wasn’t just cross-selling and bundling techniques at which Alison was good. Uncrossing and unbundling had also worked for her, to an extent. Farrah wasn’t going down that road. She had a hard enough time opening up to someone whose heart was available. She suspected Will’s would be until the instant she committed to him. Then he’d begin to question himself. His childhood nickname had been Hamlet. That in itself answered Farrah’s question about getting back together with him.

  Shifting in the leather armchair, Farrah wondered if Jude had hooked up with one of his interview subjects. Yet she couldn’t she bring herself to return any of his phone calls or e-mails.

  The woman named Linda whom she’d met on Marathon Day had implied he’d mixed pleasure with business with his dubious research techniques for his sleazy book. Then when she’d checked out where he lived, it turned out he was staying at the house of the woman who called him Big Boy. He’d said she was an interview subject for his book, meaning she was wealthy and had married money. It looked as if Jude had become some sort of plaything for her. He’d gotten his interview and a place to live, she’d gotten whatever thrills she was looking for outside of her marriage to Mr. Moneybags. A perfect quid pro quo, with no room in the equation for Farrah.

  Wistfully, her mind wandered back to her teaching days. She’d offered something real to children with eager, open minds. It had been so much more rewarding than what she was doing now.

  “I’m just letting you know,” Barbara continued, the second she put down the phone, “you’ve got two more weeks to turn things around.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. And by the way, great shoes,” Farrah replied, noticing Barbara’s cherry red Christian Louboutin platform pumps as they both exited the office to proceed to their weekly sales meeting.

  “Oh thanks.” Barbara looked pleased.

  Her boss would still be able to buy Louboutin shoes with Alison Keane’s contribution to the division. It didn’t matter at all whether Farrah got the top spot or not. What mattered was for Farrah to get what she wanted out of life, not just out of her job.

  “MOTHER REALLY LIKED you.”

  “I really liked her.”

  “She wants to ask you to Saddle River over the holidays.”

  “I’m going to California for Christmas.” Thank God she’d booked the ticket to fly out to see Sean and her father. She wanted to feel safe, not as if she were being evaluated and perhaps found lacking. And for the first time, she no longer cared if Will or his mother found her lacking. The shoe was on the other foot now. Will’s mother had been great fun—she would have loved to spend more time with her. The problem was with Will himself. When she’d picked up the phone, she knew the moment had come.

  “Did you mention that to me? he asked peevishly.

  “You didn’t ask.” It was exactly one week before Christmas. She’d booked her ticket to California Thanksgiving night after spending the day with Will seeing a movie and having tapas at a Spanish lounge on the Upper West Side. When he’d asked, she declined his invitation to stay the night with him. She hadn’t even been tempted.

  Instead she’d returned home to Riverdale and made plans to spend her next holiday in a way that made sense to her—with family.

  “I guess I thought you’d be around,” he replied.

  “I guess you’ve been thinking I’d be around for awhile now.” Probably because she had been. Waiting and wondering what had gone wrong between them. Now, she knew. She also knew what she was going to do about it.

  “I—uh—well what about New Year’s Eve then? Mother always has a big do out at the house.”

  “I imagine your mother throws great parties,” she hedged, working up her courage.

  “She does. I’ll let her know we’re coming out.”

  So presumptuous. But she’d always acquiesced to his plans, whether she’d liked them or not. She took a deep breath. What she said next had the power to change her life. Could she do it?

  “Actually, I can’t. I have another commitment New Year’s Eve.”

  There. It was out. That afternoon she’d decided to sign up for the Midnight Run in Central Park. It was a four-mile race put on by the New York City Road Runners Club every December 31st, featuring live music, silly hats, and champagne at the end. It wasn’t a serious race, but to Farrah it felt like a seriously good way to end the year and usher in a new one with her in the driver’s seat. She’d made her decision and with the words she’d just uttered, breathed life into it.

  A significant pause took place on the other end of the line. “You already made plans for New Year’s?” he finally asked.

  “I like making plans. They give me something to look forward to.” Unlike your endless plan changes and vague invitations that don’t pan out.

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see. You didn’t see at Thanksgiving time, and you didn’t bother to ask me about Christmas until now.” Making plans one week before the most significant holiday of the year wasn’t going to cut it for her. It felt good to let him know.

  “Uh—well—I didn’t really know how Mother would feel about—about—”

  “About me.”

  “You passed in flying colors, darling. She can’t wait to see you again.”

  “Will, is this conversation about your mother and me? Or about you and me?” She was getting her mojo on now. The mojo she’d never known she possessed until she’d moved to the Bronx and become her own woman.

  “I—it’s about us, of course. I just thought we would be doing something together over the holidays.”

  “I think we need to talk.” Devilishly, she reveled in saying the words instead of being on the receiving end of similar ones.

  “About what?” She could feel alarm bells going off on the other end of the line.

  “About what’s going on between us.”

  “We do?” Will sounded startled. As startled as she had sounded three years earlier when he’d said he sensed a disconnect when they talked.

  “I haven’t been able to move ahead,” she said.

  “Take all the time you need, darling. I know my actions must have been confusing.”

  “They were.” How sweet he sounded. How understanding. It was amazing how nice Will could be when his back was up against a wall. Too bad it took him getting into a tight spot to offer an unequivocal response. “And I’m glad you got back in touch so I could understand how confusing they still are,” she continued.

  “Well—I don’t mean to be—I mean, I think we’re moving in the right direction.”

  “Will, I think I’m moving in the right direction—for me. I don’t think it’s yours.”

  “What do you mean?” He sounded shocked.

  “I mean, I’m happy where I am. When we broke up, it took me a long time to get to a place where I was happy. But now I’m there.” She wasn’t entirely there, but she was on her way.

  “You want to stay where, exactly?”

  “In Riverdale, for one.”

  “But Farrah, it’s not the City.”

  “Actually it is the City. It’s just not your idea of the city because it’s not Manhattan. But I like it a
nd so do a lot of other people.”

  “Not our types, dear.”

  “I’ve changed, Will. You haven’t.”

  “Farrah, if you’re going to change, for heaven’s sake, change for the better, not the worse.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Once upon a time she would have swallowed Will’s point of view hook, line, and sinker. Not anymore.

  “I mean, I understand why you moved to the Bronx but now things are different. If you don’t have to live there, why would you?”

  “Like I said, because I like it. A lot.” She thought of Blanca Mills, Ana Morales, John Boyleston, and all her other supportive and nonjudgmental friends on the running club. They were all from the Bronx. On their behalf she burned with resentment at Will’s dismissal of the people she cared about.

  “Any particular reason why?’

  “Many. None of which you noticed when you visited.” Her heart panged as she thought back to how moved Jude had been by their surroundings when they’d run together on Wave Hill. Too bad his life had been about as complicated as Will’s decision-making was. She was fed up with complications—either with men like Jude who was surrounded by them; or men like Will, who embodied them. Until she found someone who could offer his whole heart and truly embrace what she had to offer back, she would enjoy her simple life in Riverdale and time spent running with her track club. It was enough.

  “There wasn’t much to notice.”

  “There was if you had eyes to see.”

  “I was looking at you, Farrah. Not your neighborhood.”

  “My neighborhood is part of who I am.”

  “You’re an Upper West Sider, and you know it.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Well, we could move to the Upper East Side. Prices are starting to come down over there.”

  “Will, I’m not in the market to move anywhere with you.” She inhaled deeply as yet another life-defining statement came out of her mouth. It was like speeding up on the downhill slope. She hardly knew herself. But she was going with the new her.

  “This is all too sudden, Farrah. I know. Let’s just put the brakes on and take things one step at a time.”

  “I’ve noticed each of our steps is leading us in different directions.”

  “Perhaps we should get off the phone now and talk when you’re less upset,” Will said, sounding worried.

  “I’m not upset.” You are. “I’ve never felt calmer actually. I know what I want.”

  “What’s that then? To live in the Bronx and be a salesperson all your life? The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. Finally, she recognized it for what it was. An insult to her and everything she had made for herself over the past three years of rebuilding her life without him. Her mojo rising, she’d give him something to really sneer at.

  “No, Will. To live in the Bronx and become a schoolteacher again.”

  “You can’t be serious.” His voice was disdainful.

  “I am.” It felt good not to emulate his scornful, sophisticated tone. It was unattractive. She’d always equated sophistication with beauty. Suddenly she saw it wasn’t necessarily so. It was as ugly as when he called her “darling,” followed by the latest change in plans. Who needed it? She’d rather hear Ana or Blanca trash-talking her any day. Or Jude.

  Again a significant pause. “Farrah, I’d better get going.”

  “Have a good Christmas, Will. Tell your mother I’m sorry I won’t be making it to her new year’s bash.”

  “So we won’t see each other before you leave for California?” He sounded like a small boy trying to get his mother to change her mind about going out without him.

  “No.”

  “Well, what about afterward? What day are you coming back?”

  “Not afterward either. There’s no point, Will.” She paused, searching to get across what she knew in her heart. “We don’t fit together.”

  “I see.”

  “You should. Goodbye.” Without even trying, her voice remained calm. It was easy, because she had no regrets.

  Gently, she put down the phone. It would be a lonely Christmas and New Year’s, but satisfying. She was moving in on who and what she wanted—a genuine relationship with a person she could trust and with whom she could be herself, and a job that truly mattered. Self-knowledge was the best Christmas gift she could give herself. Even if it came at a price.

  Flipping open her laptop, she found the New York City Road Runners Club website and signed up for the New Year’s Eve Midnight Run race in Central Park. Running would save her. It always did.

  THIRTEEN

  The manuscript was almost done. It had cost him his budding relationship with Farrah then almost being blackmailed by Missy Henckels. She appeared to want to get her husband’s attention, and Jude was fairly certain he had been used along the way to achieve her aim. He was ready to shut the book on writing about how to get rich. Now that he knew some of the techniques of those who were, he no longer envied them.

  The evening before he’d attended a holiday party at Greenwich’s Millbrook Club. It was the first time he’d met some of the husbands of his interview subjects. Anne Alexander was there with Matt, a private equity man. Jordan Marshall was with her husband Charlie, head of an international corporate conglomerate. He found it ironic that of the three attractive women he’d interviewed, Missy, who was head and shoulders above and beyond the serious gorgeousness of the other two, appeared to receive the least attention from her husband. She had also been the most available for interviews.

  When he’d joked about running another race for charity, Anne’s eyes had flickered then looked away. Next to her Jordan had been polite, but distant. Had he overstayed his visit in the Marshall’s spare room over their garage? Nervously, he thought about his conduct over the past few weeks since he’d been there. Nothing came to mind that might have gotten him into trouble. He’d been quiet, writing almost nonstop in a desperate sprint to the finish line of How to Marry Money. Thank God he was only there for another six days until the 27th, when the Griswold’s guests left. Again glancing at the group, he sensed gazes being averted. Something was up. Invisible lines had been etched in the sand.

  Jude headed for the club bar, across the hall. It was filled with men only, not surprisingly. Jay Henckels stood across the room, smoking cigars with two others in front of the open hearth fireplace underneath an enormous elk’s head. He got a whiskey and soda and wandered over. When he introduced himself, a nanosecond of silence followed before conversation resumed. The society freeze out had just taken place. He’d been on the wrong end of plenty of those as a child.

  What had he been thinking to mistake he was one of the gang? He was there at The Millbrook Club as a guest, not a member. Ginny Slade had brought him along since she didn’t have a date for the evening. When Anne introduced him to her husband as a writer and personal trainer, Matt Alexander had avoided eye contact as they briefly shook hands. In the men’s eyes—all of whom were in finance or business—Jude imagined he held the status of one of their wives’ playthings. Anyone could say they were writing a book. As a ghostwriter he was unknown as an author. As far as the men were concerned, he was a personal trainer—a service provider.

  He wandered back to the main ballroom, ill at ease and feeling out of place.

  “Excuse me, could you tell me where the silent auction room is?” a woman asked, glancing at Jude as if he had “Staff” written on his forehead.

  A wistful longing came over him. If only Farrah was there with him. But he wouldn’t have been there at all if he’d been with her. He would have been somewhere more down to earth and cozy, like an Irish pub in Riverdale or Ryan’s Steakhouse. Nobody would be looking down their noses or freezing out anyone else. Children would be inappropriately sitting on their parents’ laps at the bar, women wearing too much makeup, with less than perfect figures would be chatting with each other ignoring their husbands and kids, and the men would be taking in the game on the TV behind the bar. Exc
ept for him. He’d be taking in Farrah next to him, in all her grapefruity floatiness.

  A sharp ache shot through him followed by frustration. How could she just pull the plug on their budding relationship? Didn’t he deserve an explanation?

  “Having fun yet?” Ginny asked.

  She’d glided up to him noiselessly. He was almost grateful for her company. It would keep thoughts at bay of what could have been but wasn’t.

  “Not really.”

  Ginny glanced at him then looked away. She seemed less horsey tonight. Some sort of smudgy smoky eye makeup made her look like Alice in Wonderland dressed up like Nefertiti. Perhaps it was the black velvet hair band.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, but Anne and Jordan acted a bit frosty when we spoke.”

  “Your writing is taking you over. Aren’t you over-analyzing?” She fidgeted with her hair, pushing it back behind the head band.

  Jude looked full into her face.

  “Am I?”

  There it was again. The nanosecond delay. Something was up.

  “Have you seen Missy tonight?” she asked casually.

  He shook his head. “Why?”

  “No reason. I was just wondering when you last spoke.”

  “It was a while ago. Before Thanksgiving.” Just thinking about the woman made him sweat. Whether with fear or unwanted attraction, he wasn’t sure.

  “Ever get to the personal training session with her?”

  “Uh—well—yes, we did. I did,” he corrected himself.

  “How’d it go?”

  “It was what it was.” Nervously he jangled the change in his trouser pockets. He’d just used one of the lamest phrases ever to come into common parlance. As a professional writer, his syntax bordered on criminal.

  “Was it now?” She looked at him questioningly.

  “Why? What did Missy say to you? Did she mention it?”

  “She said you apparently don’t have a girlfriend.” She looked at him appraisingly. “I told her I thought you did, but I wasn’t sure. Want to set me straight?”

  Blood coursed up and down the sides of his neck. He wasn’t sure which of her statements he should respond to first. All of them put him in a dry sweat.