Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (22 page)

Back in Jackson Heights, Queens they hadn’t had too many societies. The Ladies Sewing Circle had sponsored occasional bingo nights at the Catholic church. Her mother’s social circle at the hair salon had consisted of women with big hair, makeup just over the border from tasteful, and colorful nails. She’d bet the females flocking around Jude all had nude manicures to match their expensive makeup-that-looks-like-no-makeup look.

She ducked down and slunk out of the tent. This just wasn’t the moment to greet Jude. She’d screwed up her time, finishing an unimpressive minute and a half off her last 10K race, her face was makeup-free and covered in sweat and dirt, and her interest in connecting up with Jude in front of a bunch of flawlessly groomed Greenwich women was nil. It wasn’t just that they were all so attractive: She could handle that.

It was the smug quality they exuded with which she didn’t know how to compete. They all had that private club, private school, private world aura about them. Like they knew something other people didn’t. She wanted to claw their eyes out. Or at least smack Eva Longoria’s hand off Jude’s shoulder. She wasn’t happy about the way he hadn’t already lifted it off him.

Out of your league, girl.
She didn’t want to be in their club anyway. She didn’t know where she wanted to be at the moment, but anywhere away from Jude and his bevy of beauties would be better than where she was now. Breaking into a slow jog, she headed for the parking lot.

“Hey Farrah, where you going?” John Boyleston called out on his way to the tent.

“I’ll be over at the van,” she said, glad she hadn’t yet told John she wasn’t planning to ride back with him and the rest of the Van Cortlandt runners. She hadn’t wanted to mention it on the way up, knowing Blanca or Ana would immediately squeeze out of her what her plans were for getting home.

“Come watch the awards ceremony. I saw your friend Jude finish. He’s probably going to medal.”

“No thanks. But could you give him a message from me?”

“Sure. But why not give it to him yourself?”

“It’s one of those—girl things.”

“Ohhh—So, what do I tell him?”

“Tell him congratulations from me, and that I wasn’t feeling well, so I had to go home.”

“You sure you can’t tell him yourself?”

Farrah gave John a look.

“Okay, I’ll let him know.”

“And don’t let him know I’m still here.”

“Sure, boss. Anything else?”

“Don’t say anything to Ana or Blanca.”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” he said, returning her significant glance.

Dejected, she jogged to the parking lot. She just couldn’t face an afternoon alone with Jude Farnsworth. Not after seeing all those polished prep school–types fawn all over him. As soon as he found out just how unpolished she was, he’d be through with her. He was probably just dating her because he liked to slum it every once in awhile—take a walk on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. When he’d had his fun, he’d hightail it back to Greenwich where one day he’d marry some smug beauty with a trust fund, just as Will had done.

She winced.
Best to stick with your own type
her father had always said. She’d ignored his advice when she took up with Will, and where had it gotten her? Three years of confusion and heartbreak later, she knew what he’d meant. Her father hadn’t meant just Irish day laborers or working class men, but people whose measure she could take. She’d never fully understand what was behind the smug smiles of the kind of women who now surrounded Jude. Who was she kidding? Even if she could fake an attitude like that, she wouldn’t know how to maintain it for more than a date or two. It had been two dates already with Jude. That was enough. Time to pull the plug before he did.

She stretched against the side of John’s dirty, gray van. Touching it made her feel safe. It was old, beat up, and unpretentious—perfect for the Bronx and for the way she felt at that moment.

After another ten minutes of stretching, her cell phone rang. Jude. Summoning up her story, she answered.

“Farrah, where are you?” Jude asked, sounding concerned.

She could hardly hear him for all the background noise on his end.

“I—uh—did John tell you?”

“He said you weren’t feeling well. I didn’t see you at the end of the race. Are you okay?”

“I—Yes, I just need to go home and rest. Do you think we could postpone our drive to some other day?” She hoped he wouldn’t think she was flighty. Then she asked herself why she cared. Hadn’t she just resolved to stick to her own type? Her heart sank as she remembered her 2 percent fat, organic milk inquiry the day they had met. Her own type of man didn’t exist, from what she could tell. If they did, they were playing for the other team.

“Are you still here? Let me come find you.”

“Uh—no. I caught a ride back to Riverdale with a friend,” she lied, hoping she sounded convincing.

“You did? Oh, that’s too bad.” Was she imagining things or did he sound more relieved than disappointed? With all the noise on his end, it was difficult to tell. “How about if I call you later, and maybe we can do something this evening? I mean, if you’re feeling better.”

“I’ve got work tomorrow. But sure, let’s talk.”

“We could do something close to you. Maybe go over to that Irish place you told me about.”

At An Beal Bocht, the customers were mostly Irish laborers and Manhattan College students—the kinds born without silver spoons in their mouths. “I’ll see how I’m feeling. And congratulations. John told me you medaled.”

“I—oh yeah—hang on a minute.” She heard a high-pitched voice in the background. A woman was asking him something.

He came back on, sounding hurried. “Listen, I’ll call later. Rest up and take some ibuprofen.”

“Sure. Talk to you later.” She clicked off, wondering who’d interrupted him. One of the Society Smugsters undoubtedly. She went around to the far side of the van to remain undetected should Jude walk by before she left.

In a few minutes, she saw her teammates heading toward the vehicle. The second John unlocked its doors Farrah jumped in, slouching down in the farthest back seat. She fished in her backpack, until she found a baseball cap then put it on, hiding her hair up under it.

“You hurt?” Ana Morales asked concernedly.

“Nope.” Farrah shook her head.

“Then what’s up? I didn’t see you in the tent. That guy who came to breakfast with us in New Paltz won third place in his age group.”

“That’s great.”

“He had quite a posse there—all women sponsoring him for charity. You should have seen them all over him,” Ana went on.

I did,
Farrah didn’t say, further sinking into her seat.

“What charity was that?” someone asked.

“It looked like the Make Me an MRS Foundation,” Gary McMullen chuckled.

“Oh look. There he is now,” Ana Morales pointed out. She tapped the window, motioning to her.

Farrah reached out and pulled Ana’s hand from the window. Sure enough, Jude was walking past the van, the Eva Longoria lookalike at his side. She was smiling up into his face, laughing at something. The high-heeled brown leather boots she wore took two steps for every one Jude did.

A sudden silence swept the inside of the van as Gary, Mike and John all checked out the woman. The men of the Van Cortlandt Track Club were highly respectful of the dignity of the females with whom they ran. Catcalls and comments were out. Instead, a moment of reverence passed while male breaths were sucked in.

“That was some smoking hot chick. What do you think? Girlfriend? Wife?” Ana was the first to regain speech.

Farrah shrugged, slumping back against the car seat, head down.

“Why are you scooched down like that? Don’t want that guy to see you? What was his name again? Jules?” Ana continued, looking at her suspiciously.

“No. I just got one of those post-race headaches.”

“You mean, like when the blood’s all rushing to your head, and you feel a little dizzy then nauseous?” her friend asked, peering at her as if to say “are you bullshitting me?”

“Yeah. That’s it. She put her hand up to her temple for added drama.

“Let’s see, maybe I’ve got some ibuprofen in my bag,” Ana said, rummaging in her pack. Always practical, always helpful, it was best to focus her on problem-solving rather than problem-speculating.

Farrah almost wished she really did have a headache just to distract her from what she’d seen. It couldn’t possibly get worse.

Then it did.

As they exited the parking lot, they drove past Jude’s dark green Ford Taurus. The woman in the high-heeled boots was just getting into the passenger side of the car as Jude put something in his trunk. His back was to Farrah so she had a chance to watch the miniature knockout as she fluffed her hair then pulled down the passenger seat visor to use the mirror.

“Here you go,” Ana commanded, pressing two ibuprofens into Farrah’s hand then passing her a water bottle.

She took them. She didn’t have a headache, but maybe they’d help with the heartache she had begun to feel. First Will then Jude both hankering after the kind of woman she would never be. But Will had tired of that kind of woman. Yet, did that mean he really wanted her?

Anxiety squeezed her heart. It was the old unease she’d felt when they’d been a couple. She was sick of worrying whether she measured up to someone else’s standards—Will Young’s or Barbara Feretti’s. Back in the woods she’d measured up to her own standards. Wasn’t it time for that to be enough?

N
INE

O
n the shuttle to Philadelphia Farrah sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. She had three appointments, beginning at ten that morning, with the final one over at four. If she was lucky she’d make the 5:30
P.M.
shuttle back to New York so she could be home no later than half past seven. Business travel days such as this one were tolerable, if everything went right. Usually they didn’t, just like in her love life.

Had she been too abrupt in rushing to judgment on what she’d seen the day before in the parking lot at Leatherman’s Loop? Maybe he’d just been giving the woman he’d been with a ride home. But how could he have shifted gears just like that? One minute planning to drive back to Greenwich with her, the next replacing her with another woman? Not just any woman either, but a total knockout.

She sighed, regretting her own actions of the afternoon before. When Will had called to ask if they could get together, she’d still been steaming from seeing Jude walk off with the strange woman. She’d given him her address and an hour later, he was there.

It was time for him to see her in her new life in Riverdale. If he couldn’t handle her new neighborhood, she needed to know now.

They’d spent a few hours talking then taken a walk. As they passed An Beal Bocht, Farrah had asked if he wanted to stop in, but Will had screwed up his face and said he’d rather keep walking. She’d forgotten to take her cell phone, and it had been late when she’d returned, alone. She’d told him she needed to get ready for her business trip the following day and bade him goodbye outside the front of her building. No way was she reigniting any flame between them. At least not until she knew what she herself wanted.

Back in her apartment she saw that Jude had called. But the time she’d just spent with Will surrounded her on all sides. Shuffling men was something she’d never been good at. Her girlfriends had frequently teased her for being hopeless at dating more than one man at a time. She needed time to think before she returned Jude’s call.

Jerking awake, she sat up abruptly and looked down the aisle to see the drinks cart three rows away. Coffee and juice would jolt her back to the here and now.

If she told Will she didn’t want him back, what if she and Jude continued to go out, her feelings for him deepened, then suddenly one day, in a casual phone conversation or e-mail message he told her there was some sort of disconnect he couldn’t put his finger on—then disconnected in real life? She couldn’t risk something like that happening again. Before she could move in any direction, she needed to know why Will had pulled the plug on their love.

“Something to drink?” The navy blue-suited stewardess pulled up alongside her. Looking at her attractive but harried face, Farrah felt like asking her if anything like that had happened to her. She’d bet it had.

“I’ll take coffee with milk, no sugar. And cranberry juice please.”

“Here you are.”

The stewardess moved on briskly. It occurred to Farrah that as much as she wasn’t crazy about her own job, there were much harder ones—such as being an airline attendant.

Her mother had worked as a hair stylist when she’d come to the United States from Iran. She’d advised Farrah repeatedly to find a job that didn’t involve standing on her feet all day. Closing her eyes again, she conjured up her mother’s image—petite, with elegant slim fingers on small hands. Thick, dark hair piled on top of her head, a long, Roman nose that Farrah’s father had often told her was his favorite of his wife’s physical attributes, and dark brown, almond-shaped eyes with long black eyelashes framing them. She’d looked like she was wearing eye makeup even when she wasn’t. Lila had been the farthest thing from Farrah’s father’s Irish-American sisters and female acquaintances that a woman could be. He’d fallen hard for her. Did guys like that exist anymore? She’d thought Jude might be one of them, but the casual way he’d switched gears walking the unknown woman to his car in the parking lot at Leatherman’s Loop gave her pause. After Will, she didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. Thank God she hadn’t invited him back up to her apartment the evening before.

Opening her laptop, she reviewed her ten
A.M.
presentation. She was meeting with the newest member of an ophthalmology practice that specialized in laser eye surgery, or LASIK, procedures. Hopefully, it would go smoothly, and the ophthalmologist would agree to use the new product line for post-LASIK care that Farrah represented. Alison Keane was probably way ahead of her in the landing new accounts sweepstakes. But ever since Farrah’s conversation with Mara in the hot tub, her desire to compete with Alison for top salesperson of the year had diminished. At what price?