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10 | The Runaways SASHA

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. The morning sun is shining, the leaves are changing to a yellow and coral ombré that makes me feel all is right in the world. On the way to school, I nod cheerfully to Redhead Mom like, We got this .

After I kiss the kids goodbye, I spot Jamie, Celeste’s husband, dropping Henry off. I wave and cross to him, as he waves back at me. It feels good to see a friendly face.

“Did your wife tell you about my freakout yesterday?”

“She may have mentioned a minor meltdown.”

“As long as she called it ‘minor.’?”

“Sure. Let’s say she did.”

“No, but really.” I laugh. “She saved me.”

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand over his bearded face. “She has a way of doing that.”

It’s then that I notice bags under his eyes, an existential malaise in his expression that I’m used to peeping in my own mirror but not in Jamie’s inexhaustible face.

“You okay?”

He shrugs. “Just tired.”

“Minor meltdown?”

“Minor meltdown.”

“Life!” I say.

“Life,” he agrees.

We part ways.

The truth is Celeste really had helped me the day before—and not just with decompressing from my run-in with Demon Dad (my new nickname for that Ethan person). She also talked me down from the drama over after-school drama, reminding me gently that no lives hung in the balance.

“After-school theater is kind of terrible anyway,” she said. “I know. I sat through Henry’s Pokémon adaptation last spring.” She turned to face me. “I’ll never get those minutes back.”

“I know.” I nod, rubbing my eyes and smiling despite myself. “But poor Nettie. She really wanted to take theater.” I wonder if this was some abstract way of connecting with her director dad.

“Well, I’ve been hearing awesome things about Brooklyn Theater Center on Eighth Avenue. And they do pick-up!”

I don’t know how Celeste knows about these things despite rarely making an appearance at the actual school. But she always does. As soon as I got home, I threw my keys on the sideboard by the door (where I would inevitably forget I left them), kicked off my high-tops, raised the shades to let light in and then padded across the muted mauve Moroccan rug to the open-floor-plan kitchen. What the apartment lacks in size, it does make up for in nice appointments—almost. I confronted and cleaned up the Pompei of my kids’ lunch assembly—half avocado, bag of baby carrots, cream cheese container with the top flung aside. Finally, I wiped down the granite counter, then sat in front of my laptop at my kitchen table, a beautiful wooden farm relic, and googled that theater program.

Celeste was right, as always. Not only did they offer after-school drama for third and fourth graders right near our house, but the theme for the coming session was Enola Holmes. Score. Only downside? It was pricey. Now, I just needed to figure out if I had the budget.

As if all-powerful Celeste had magically manifested it, I scrolled and discovered an unexpected email waiting: a potential freelance gig that might enable me to pay for the class without having to harvest an organ or interact with Cliff! Equally painful experiences— not because I harbor regret or hurt feelings anymore, but because my ex-husband is insufferable. Cliff, who is busy being a serious director on his movie set in Canada or New Mexico or somewhere else with “great tax credits” and likes to let me know it. Cliff, who, when we met in film school, had once had a sense of humor. Or had I imagined that?

Hi Sasha,

Nice to meet you! I hope you don’t mind my reaching out cold. I’ve heard wonderful things about you and have seen a bit of your work for myself (a.k.a. went down a rabbit hole on your website and social). Very cool!

We have an upcoming project for which I think you’d be a great fit, which involves producing video content to accompany a sprawling feature we have planned for the cover story of our March issue. The only caveat is the deadline is quite tight!

If you’re interested and available, I’d love to have you come meet the team this Thursday afternoon. Would 4:00 p.m. EST work?

Please revert at your earliest convenience.

Best,

Derek Perez

Managing Editor

Escapade Magazine

I waited forty minutes to respond so as not to seem desperate. Which I am.

Derek, hi!

Thank you for getting in touch. It’s lovely to meet you. Fortunately, you’ve caught me at the perfect moment, in a short gap between projects. I’d love to learn more about this opportunity.

And, yes, I’m available on Thursday afternoon. Looking forward!

Best,

Sasha

Derek confirmed the next morning.

Though I claimed to be free to meet at 4:00 p.m., of course I am not. Because that’s after pick-up, when I’m with my kids. Which is why, later that morning, as I walk from drop-off toward the park for my run, I text my mother to request backup. If my parents can help out, I won’t have to harvest another organ to pay a sitter.

Mom. Hi! Possible for you to babysit the kids on Thursday afternoon, starting at around 3pm? I have an important meeting!

Seconds after I press Send, my phone rings with a FaceTime call. This is my mother’s move lately. FaceTime all day, every day. It’s my nightmare. Especially inconvenient when you’re texting from the toilet.

Out of options, I accept the call, ducking into a corner by the eco dry cleaner (which I suspect is just a normal dry cleaner) so I can talk without blocking street traffic.

Of course, as soon as her image pops onto the screen, a fire truck zooms past with sirens blaring.

“I can’t hear you!” she shouts.

“One second,” I say, holding up a finger.

“What?!” she says.

“Hold on!” I say, holding my hand up.

“What?!” she says.

I consider throwing my phone, or myself, into oncoming traffic.

“HOLD ON!” I yell into full quiet. The siren has passed.

A woman walking her collie brings a hand to her chest, startled, and shoots me a dirty look. The collie shrugs. They resume walking.

“What was that?” my mom is saying. “I think it was on your end.”

“It was definitely on my end,” I say. “It was a fire truck. I’m on the street. You’re on your couch.”

She is indeed sitting on the modernist couch my parents have had for at least ten years, squinting at me through her wire-rimmed glasses, a New Yorker issue castoff beside her. This is my mother in a nutshell.

“True, true,” she says, slipping her glasses off. “So, I got your text.”

“I figured.”

“What?!”

“Mom, should I just call you? It might be easier to hear.”

“No, this is great. You’re just in a loud place. Where are you? Can you go somewhere quieter?”

“Not really, Mom. I’m outdoors. In New York City. Where we both live.”

“Right, right.”

“Anyway, how are you?”

“Fine. The doctor recommended a new pain medication that I’m taking for my neck, and I think it’s helping!”

“Oh, great!”

“Yes. Don’t get old. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“I’ll do my best. I hear there’s a cool new fountain of youth in Bushwick.”

She does not laugh. “Anyway. I’m available on Thursday, but we can’t come any earlier than three p.m.”

“That should be totally fine.” I nod vigorously.

“I have a doctor’s appointment and then a meeting with that anti-censorship advisory council at the public library,” my mom continues. “You know, they’re trying to ban To Kill a Mockingbird in Florida. It’s an outrage!”

“I also have a meeting!” my father interjects from somewhere beyond my view. “But it’s a breakfast meeting!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” my mom asks my father, swiveling so that her back is fully to the camera. So that I am looking at her sweater seam.

“Just contributing to the conversation.”

“Who’s your breakfast meeting with?” my mother asks him.

“It’s Bill. I haven’t seen him since he left Columbia.”

“That’s right. I wonder how he’s doing. His wife must be losing her mind with him home all the time.”

“Well, he won’t be home on Thursday morning. He’ll be at breakfast. With me.”

“Hey, guys,” I try, but they have forgotten I exist.

“Where is brunch?”

“Guys?”

“Fairway.”

“Oh, that sounds good. I haven’t had their cranberry muffins in ages. Maybe you could bring me one?”

“GUYS!” I yelp, just as the woman with the collie circles back around. She balks at me. She is not a fan. “I’m still on the phone!”

“Oh, sorry.” My mom shrugs, turning back to face me. “Where were we?”

“Thursday. Three p.m. Sounds good!”

“What’s the meeting, by the way?”

No way I’m getting led down this path again. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you in person!”

“One last thing,” my mother says as she puts her reading glasses back on and picks up the New Yorker . “I was wondering what you’re planning for Chanukah?”

“For Chanukah?”

“Yes.”

“Is it early this year?”

“Not especially.”

“Why are we talking about it two months in advance? I’m still recovering from Yom Kippur.”

“Just planning ahead.”

“Let’s talk about this later too.”

I both appreciate my parents’ help so much and feel a bit nauseous with self-loathing for having to request it so often. Of course I will work around their schedule and the insanity—but why does everything feel like an uphill battle?

“Suit yourself.” My mother shrugs. “See you Thursday!”

I hang up, sigh and take a single step toward the park for my run when my phone rings out again. It reads “MOM.” For the love of all things holy.

“Hi?”

“Me again!” my mom says.

“I see that. Want to plan Passover? It’s only six months away.”

She ignores me.

“I just wanted to tell you that we can’t come on Thursday until three p.m.”

“Right,” I say. “You mentioned that before.” My stomach sinks. Does she not remember?

“I did?” She frowns. “Huh. Well, now I’ve said it twice.”

I nod. “Consider it computed.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

“Oh, and Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I wait for a beat after she hangs up. I will not frighten that collie again.

But the phone doesn’t ring. For the moment, it seems, we are good. Though, if I’m honest, the conversation left me feeling anything but, unease prickling below the surface. Is something up with my mom? It’s not like her to be so forgetful.

Sighing, I head to the park to blow off steam.

I run. But I am not a runner. That’s an important distinction in a neighborhood that attracts this earnest and committed a running crowd. I have never attempted a 5K, a half marathon or a marathon. I do not carry energy chews or own a holster for my iPhone. I have never consulted an expert about my gait. And, while I do use an app to track my mileage, it’s only so I know when I can be done. At exactly three miles. No matter what.

The truth is, I don’t like running. But I love stopping. The feeling of finishing and basking in the rest of a podcast or power ballad while I stroll out of the park like a champ is transcendent. Like everyone else, I have endured boring-ass lectures on the importance of exercise my whole life—by school health teachers, doctors at annual checkups, fitness articles in waiting-room magazines. But I never actually absorbed any of that endorphin mumbo jumbo until after my divorce, confronted with the vision of a future spent as a blob on my couch.

Each morning, I would blink my eyes open to another day of solo parenting without reprieve, no matter how great my kids, of feeling sad and like a failure. Of worrying about a dearth of money and time. Of feeling lonely—though never as lonely as when Cliff was still pretending to participate. Nothing like someone ignoring you in the same room to make you feel like an island. I’ve realized I prefer to be ignored from three thousand miles away.

Jogging helped.

So, now, I run my way through bits of native forest onto the main path, finding my rhythm as I get warm. I often switch up my route, but, on tired days or when I don’t feel like pushing that hard, I go against the current, jogging the opposite direction of most other runners to avoid the giant uphill swing on the opposite side of the loop. This is one of those days.

Today, the park is alive with people—runners, bikers, preschool teachers guiding groups of tiny humans in matching T-shirts, gripping a shared rope or a partner’s hand. Set free, kids toss leaves in the air. No surprise. The weather is spectacular. There’s a hint of crispness, like biting into an apple, but it’s on the tail of warm, enveloping sunlight. I love this gift of early fall, when the foliage is only beginning to make an appearance, transmuting into pinks, oranges and yellows.

Almost every morning as he eats breakfast, Bart asks me my favorite color of the day. I appreciate that he doesn’t expect me to pick one and stick with it, always. He understands, every day is different. Some days are green tea tinted, while others burst out in crimson. As I run, I lift my phone, awkwardly, to snap a photo of a particularly flamboyant maple. I’ll show it to the kids later. This is my favorite color today.

But, between my deep thoughts, photographic endeavors and the running app that periodically interrupts my podcast of celebrities interviewing celebrities, my brain and body get jumbled up and I stumble. Luckily, I catch myself before I hit the concrete and dirt path, but I look up just in time to see him see me. Demon Dad. Coming from the opposite direction. Looking like a catalog model for Runner’s Monthly , with just a dash of curated scruff.

He looks shocked. Which is how I feel too. Who knows why, since we live in the same tiny neighborhood and literally everyone runs here. Caught off guard, he waves in greeting, aborts halfway, then seems unsure of what to do with his hand. He scrunches up his nose like he’s caught a whiff of the sulfurous ginkgo tree to our left. Then, as we pass each other, at the last second, he opens his mouth to speak. Mucked up by ambivalence and the speed of sound, all I wind up hearing is a garbled rumble as if from a trapped animal surrendering. Kind of like mleghhh .

That’s when I realize that, in the midst of this profound millisecond exchange, I have been staring dumbly, my mouth hanging open like a bulldog. Dammit . A missed opportunity to glare at him or snub him or at least look “on top of things.”

I am left with a buzzing feeling, like something significant has happened when it hasn’t. Like suddenly I am awake. I try to recenter and think about something else. Not the hoodie. Not the lost drama class. Not the ways in which I have disappointed my children and this man has made it worse. Not how the divorce still feels like a failure akin to original sin. All of that sits solid in my chest, a burden to carry and keep moving.

To my chagrin, instead of waning, the shot of adrenaline from seeing that Ethan person shifts into a nervous drip. Anxiety trickles through me.

What if I don’t get this job? Is my mother losing a step? Did I leave the oven on?

I try to think hopefully about my meeting on Thursday. Plan an outfit for it. Envision it going well. Them hiring me and inexplicably paying me $2.5 million for a four-day shoot. But even that fantasy can’t settle me.

What is with this guy? Is he destined to destroy any semblance of serenity for me? Has he come into my life as a hurdle I must somehow leap in order to ascend to the next level?

The more I think about him, the more I spiral into anger. My run is sacred time! And I’ve never noticed him here before—not like the Orthodox Jewish girl who still manages to run with a wig or the inexplicably pale eighty-year-old man in full race regalia who I pass on every jog. How dare Demon Dad disturb my run by… existing! That’s right: how dare he exist!

Also, is this run almost over? Because this is not one of those easy, breezy jogs. I am huffing. I am puffing. There’s a crick in my neck.

I look down to check the remaining distance. How am I not done? Of course, when I glance back up, I make eye contact with Demon Dad. Again! What is this karma?!

This time, he looks more prepared, maintaining an even expression with only a slight raise of his eyebrows. But I am exponentially annoyed. Really? He lapped me? In the time it has taken me to move ten feet, he has run three-quarters of the loop again?

I’m contemplating to what far-flung land I can relocate my biweekly run—is it disrespectful to jog in Green-Wood Cemetery?—when I sense more than see someone jog up beside me. Like the Angel of Death, his shadow overtakes mine.

“You’re running the wrong way,” Ethan says. He has clearly hung a U-turn and is now jogging in my same direction.

I do not look his way. “There is no wrong way,” I say, between pants. “There are only wrong people.”

“Well, most people are running the way I was running. The right way.”

“Please feel free to resume running in the other direction. Away from me.”

I speed up. He keeps pace with me, easily.

“You don’t like me.”

“That’s surprising to you?”

“Maybe just the depth of your contempt.”

“I have great depth.”

“I have no doubt.”

He continues running beside me, quietly for a few paces. And, to my chagrin, I can sense him there almost physically. At my side. Like an itch. “You know, you should really run with your hands held higher up in front of you.” He demonstrates as if he’s about to start a boxing match. Punching him does seem like a good idea.

“Weirdly,” I say, instead, “I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

I am reminded of Cliff’s unsolicited note on my finished final film project in college. “You might want to do it more like… me.”

“I’m just saying”—Ethan shrugs, with irritating ease—“holding your hands up allows you to protect your face and body if you fall.”

I say nothing. I am honestly just trying to keep breathing. This is faster than my usual pace. But there is no way I’m slowing down.

“?’Cause I saw that. Before,” he says, pointing his thumb behind us, “when you almost ate it back there.”

Of course he did.

“Oh, good,” I say. “I’m so glad to hear there were witnesses.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“Let me confirm that you’re not.”

I sprint farther ahead. I don’t think I’ve ever run this hard. The trees are blurs in my peripheral vision, and yet this annoying man remains in focus. And then, like a miracle, my running app chirps through my earbuds: “Distance: three miles. Split time: eight minutes, fifty-four seconds. Average pace: nine minutes, forty-three seconds per mile.”

I stop short, gasping, and squat to catch my breath.

Ethan overshoots, realizes I’m gone, then turns around and circles back, still jogging in place.

“What happened?” he says from above. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I manage. “I’m fine.”

“So, why did you stop?”

“I was done.”

“Done? You finished the loop?”

“Nope. I run three miles. The loop is three and a quarter.”

“Really? But why not just finish? You’re so close.”

I gape at him incredulously. “Because I don’t want to! Oh my God! Why am I having this conversation? Who are you?”

I start speed-walking away, my arms swinging. I’m still breathing hard, but it’s an improvement. He stops running and falls in line, walking beside me.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, running a hand through his mussed hair. “I’m making things worse. Sometimes I do that when I’m… awkward.”

“Are you sometimes not awkward?”

“Occasionally.”

“Okay. Well, good luck with that. I’m gonna go.” I turn my back on him.

“Wait.” He reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder. His touch is totally gentle, but it sends such a strong shock wave through my body that I startle and step away.

“What?!” I yelp, my body reverberating.

An enormous man in a Yankees cap and tracksuit sitting on a bench nearby shoots me a questioning look: All okay? Like if I needed, he’d take Ethan by the scruff of the neck and toss him over the fence and into the zoo.

I nod. It’s cool. No need for intervention. But good to know that’s an option.

“Sorry!” Ethan says to me again, holding up his palms. “Look”—he sighs, dropping his hands, flexing the one that grazed my shoulder like he got shocked too—“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about yesterday. About what happened. And your daughter. So, when I saw you, I figured I’d take the opportunity to—”

“Mansplain about how to fix my running stance?”

“Um, no. Apologize. And explain. If you’re open to it.”

I cross my arms over my chest. I’m trying to maintain my level-orange hatred, but he’s making it difficult. His charming half smile. The crinkle of his eyes. The way he gazes at the ground like a contrite little kid.

Plus, now that we’ve stopped, it’s impossible not to notice his muscular arms and legs, the way his damp T-shirt clings to his lean chest. He’s stupidly handsome and the crookedness of his smile only exacerbates the issue. I smooth my ponytail, catch myself primping and almost groan out loud. Ugh . This guy is every woman’s worst nightmare.

“Okay,” I say, recovering. I will not groom for this man. “Go ahead.”

Ethan gestures over to the side of the path, and I nod. We step a few feet into the grass, so we’re not blocking other runners. We are awash in kinetic light under the flickering leaves of a now-orange oak.

“I know I should’ve given you your daughter’s spot in drama back.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I didn’t. Because, well, I was caught off guard and also… it’s complicated with my… ex-wife.”

I like to think only a seasoned veteran like myself could detect the subtle clunkiness of the way he delivers the moniker. The way he is still trying ex on for size. The divorce is fresh.

Of course, I, of all people, understand this. The complication of factoring in the impulses of a person with whom you’re no longer romantically entangled but to whom you will forever be logistically chained. The desire to avoid engaging. It’s the only reason I’m sometimes grateful that Cliff is so checked out.

“I’m trying to take on more, but it’s all kind of new for me. She was already angry that I hadn’t secured the spot in drama in the first place—I didn’t realize how cutthroat after-school sign-up is—and then, when Ms. Choi said that a waitlist spot had opened up, I was so relieved to diffuse things. Giving it up to you would have meant contending with my ex. Which is not your problem. Sorry. Is this too much information?”

I sigh. “No. It’s okay. Unfortunately, I can relate.”

I watch him process this information. “Right. The point is, I took the easy way out… at your daughter’s expense. And if you want the spot back, it’s yours.”

I study him for a moment. The clear look in his brown eyes. I even feel a little bad for him. Does he have an angle?

Well, he has many angles. But I’m trying to avoid noticing those—because of the warm feeling they’re giving me in my stomach.

I really need to get out more.

If he has some nefarious plan, I can’t see it. He’s just some semi-absent dad who’s on a mission to be present now, fueled by divorce guilt. It explains why I haven’t noticed him before. He was probably never around until now.

“No, it’s okay.” I shake my head, opting to take him at face value. “I appreciate that, but, at this point, I think I’ll spare my daughter the whiplash, never mind disappointing your kid too. I imagine she doesn’t need more upheaval in her life.”

He nods, sighing, like the thought of his daughter’s forlorn face stresses him out as much as Nettie’s does me. He tugs absently on a leaf dangling from a drooping tree branch, which rebounds mildly. We both watch it bounce.

“Anyway,” he says, remembering himself. “I’m sorry for saying you should be more on top of things. And I’m sorry I screwed you.” He pauses, then smirks. “Especially because that’s really starting to sound wrong.”

I grin despite myself. “It really is.”

We both snicker. Maybe we’re parents, but we’re all still seventh graders at heart.

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly a habit. “Let’s start over,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m Sasha. Officially.”

He narrows his eyes. “I know who you are.”

I am startled by the way he says this. As if he really does. As if maybe I should know who he is too. As if he sees me.

For a disorienting moment, I can’t tell if he’s being literal or not. I am struck dumb. There’s an awkward pause.

“Sorry. I don’t…”

“We’ve met before,” he explains. “At the playground.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m bad with faces. And names.”

He nods. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I see a look of disappointment flit across his face, then disappear.

And I’m confused. This man hates me—right?

“Well,” I say, suddenly unmoored. “I better go.”

As I begin walking away, cutting across the lawn to the nearest exit, he starts up the path ahead, revving back up to a run. But then he turns to face me, jogging backward.

“You really should keep your hands up when you run though,” he calls, modeling the position.

“You really should stop dispensing unsolicited advice.”

He cocks his head, unbothered. Shrugs. “Fair enough.”

And, with that, Demon Dad turns and sprints away. I press Play on my podcast and bask in the afterglow of my run.