Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers Read Free

the wound.
    “Can I take your orders now?” the waitress asked.
    “Chocolate chip pancakes for me,” John Boyleston boomed out.
    “Me, too.”
    “Make that three,” Ana Morales put in.
    The waitress looked at Farrah.
    “I haven’t decided yet.” She turned to Jude. “You go first.”
    “I’ll take the oatmeal with a side of fresh fruit.”
    The waitress eyeballed Farrah. “Ready?”
    “What kind of fresh fruit do you have?” she asked.
    “Honeydew melon. And blueberries.”
    “Are they mixed together?”
    This time, the waitress rolled her eyes on behalf of the entire staff of the diner.
    “Yes.”
    Farrah looked uncertain.
    “It should be good. I’ve had it here before,” Jude said. He was beginning to detect a slight problem. She was female.
    “I heard you’re not supposed to eat different types of fruits together at the same time.”
    He’d heard that, too. But who cared? You also weren’t supposed to watch TV while you ate, but 90 percent of the world’s population did anyway.
    “I’ll eat your blueberries for you, if you don’t want them,” he offered.
    She hesitated, then smiled. “Well, okay.”
    “Is that all?” the waitress asked.
    “Umm—”
    “Have the oatmeal,” he urged her. You just ran six miles. Eat.” He hoped she wasn’t one of those women who didn’t eat. He couldn’t stand them. Watching them just push bits of food around on their plates took away his own appetite.
    “Another oatmeal, coming up.” The waitress walked away without waiting for Farrah’s response.
    “So how many place winners have we got here today?” John asked the table. Of the eight runners present, four hands went up.
    “Mike, congrats. Was that a P.R. today?” He referred to a personal record, in runners’ lingo.
    “Yeah, it was. I sliced off six seconds from my time two years ago in this race.”
    “Any other P.R.’s set by anyone?”
    Jude Farnesworth raised a hand.
    “Congrats, man. By the way, I’m John Boyleston, track coach for Van Cortlandt Track Club.” John half stood, extending his arm across the table.
    “Jude Farnesworth. I run with Greenwich Track Club.” He shook John’s hand. Feeling four sets of female eyes on him, he quickly sat down.
    “How much time did you take off?” John continued.
    “Well, it was a different sort of P.R.”
    “How so?”
    “He added some time to whatever time he took off his previous record when he helped me,” Farrah cut in.
    “Oh, so you’re the one who stopped to help Fairfoe when she tripped,” a sultry voice spoke up. Across the table, an older, good-looking Hispanic woman scrutinized him. Her gold hoop earrings flashed as she shook out her dark, curly hair.
    “Fairfoe?” He looked at the woman uncertainly.
    “Farrah, she means,” the woman replied. “That’s her nickname.”
    “Fairfoe, huh?” he turned to Farrah to see if he’d get any further explanation.
    “Foley’s my last name. They sort of mashed my first syllables together. It’s a club tradition.”
    “I see,” he said, not sure that he did. He glanced over at the curly-haired woman. “I just stopped to make sure she was okay. She took a nasty fall.”
    “What happened, Farrah? Did you trip on a root?” a male runner asked.
    “Yes, but that wasn’t why it happened,” she told him.
    “So, what’s the story?” he continued.
    “I was trying to pass, uh—”
    “This guy here?” another male club member asked.
    “Yes. Him.”
    “So you got a little ahead of yourself?”
    “What was it about him that threw you off, Fairfoe?” The curly-haired woman looked teasingly in Jude’s direction. He turned to Farrah to see how she’d take the provocative remark as he attempted to hide the color creeping up his neck.
    Before he looked away, Jude had noted both triceps and biceps definition in the older woman’s upper arms. Impressive. She looked like she worked out at the gym, as well as on the track. He’d worked as a personal trainer when he first