A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon Read Free Book Online Page B

cancelled our booking (something about an auto accident), and it was too late to find another venue. We said we’d do it next year. Maybe.
    Now Ted is gone. He’s taking an extended “break” in Berlin, while I’ve been bestowed the freedom to date whomever I choose. It is not a freedom I’ve asked for or want.
    I’m sure he won’t call today. Best not to wait around. Time to go for a run.
    The phone rings; it’s my friend Lana. “Have you checked your email yet today?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust do.”
    I open my inbox to find a message presumably emailed to our entire guest list. Evite Reminder: Ted and Lisa’s Wedding.
    Just so all of my friends and family really, really remember exactly what is not happening today. Mercifully, none of the recipients ever say a word.

    Why mope? I leave for my run.
    I get out of the car at the trailhead and stretch next to the two-lane road sandwiched between the river and the airport. It’s mostly used by truckers as a back route to industrial parks and freeways. I like it because the path is paved and flat. It’s my “I don’t feel like running” course.
    I notice a man on a bicycle in the distance. I’ve learned how to distinguish recreational bike riders from the transient car thieves that comb isolated parking lots off this road. This guy is of the car thief variety so I stay near my car, waiting for him to pass. I don’t want to lose my stereo.
    He doesn’t pass. He rides straight up to me and stops. He’s normal looking enough, but tattered and greasy around the edges in a way that reads transient. He blocks my way to the path and thrusts out his hand for me to shake.
    â€œI’m James.”
    â€œHello, James,” I say, keeping my hands to myself.
    â€œWhat’s wrong? You won’t shake my hand?” he says in an unsettling, sharp voice. “What’s your name? Why won’t you shake my hand?”
    Alarm bells start to blare in my head. Isolated road, no clear path forward or back. Truckers whizzing by, oblivious.
    I hold up my hands and gesture towards the path as if to say, “Back off.”
    This does not fly.
    â€œWhat? You’re too good to shake my hand?” He thrusts out his hand again in confrontation. “Just shake my hand and I’ll leave you alone. Hi. I’m James.”
    I shake his hand.
    â€œI’m Lisa. Nice to meet you.”
    He doesn’t let go of my hand and barks, “What’s my name?”
    â€œJames.”
    â€œWhat’s my name again?”
    â€œJames.”
    â€œSee? Was that so hard?”
    He lets go of my hand, turns his bike around and begins to walk away.
I take a few steps toward the trail. He stops, turns back and spits, “I hate people like you.”
    A dead calm comes over me. This is not the nonsensical raving of a mad-man, but cool, palpable rage. Staring at me, he says, “I hate women.”
    I remain detached, as if watching a child throw a temper tantrum. In an effort to soothe him, I start to say, “I’m sorry you are in so much pain.” But all I can get out is “I’m sorry” before he interrupts, shouting, “ Sorry? No. No. You better get out of here!”
    I’m calculating. He’s blocking my path to the car. If I start to run up the trail even a hundred yards, I will not be visible to traffic. I will be completely isolated. He could easily follow me on his bike and attack. With no way forward and no way back, I stand still.
    â€œI said you better get out of here—I’ll hurt you,” he threatens.
    I stare at him with icy reserve. He is testing me, playing at controlling me, and he’s clearly aggravated that I refuse to obey. If I turn my back to run, it will be an invitation to chase.
    I back away, moving steadily toward the trail with my eyes on him, as he shouts louder and louder. “You better run! Don’t walk.