Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers by Rozsa Gaston Read Free Book Online Page B

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