Page 49

49 | The Long Run SASHA

I am on the loop. But, instead of running three miles, I am running as long as it takes to exorcise this agitated warble in my chest. And I am moving in the “wrong” direction.

I still take umbrage with that label. Wrong . Let’s say unconventional . Let’s say renegade . I am running in the direction of free thought.

Prospect Park is crowded today. People jog, walk, chase their dogs. Dogs jog, walk, chase their pigeons. It’s not surprising. The weather is getting colder—you can feel winter warning—and today may very well be our last gasp of relative warmth.

It is fifty-six degrees and sunny. The sky is glass. And I know there’s no way he resisted. I am here later in the day, but it’s like I can feel Ethan’s presence here in the morning, hours before, blowing past me with his hands up. This loop will never be the same.

I am listening to Olivia Rodrigo. If anyone asks, it’s the Clash. The music is carrying me for now. I told myself I’d run as long as it takes, but, after about a mile, I am already tired.

That’s when I sense someone run up beside me. See? I’m not the only person who prefers the road less traveled!

“Hi,” my new running partner says. Only he doesn’t say it, he pants it.

I turn to face him. And I am confronted with Demon Dad. Only he does not look quite like himself. First of all, instead of running gear, he’s wearing jeans, a PT, a perfect hoodie and a streamlined army-green backpack. Second, all are drenched in sweat. He looks like me after two miles. Which is like him after ten.

But he’s still annoyingly sexy as hell.

For a moment, I am thrilled to see him… until I remember that maybe I’m not. “What is actually happening?” I say with wide eyes, not breaking stride.

“I came,” he huffs, “to find you.”

“To find me?”

He nods vigorously, unable to catch his breath.

“How did you know where I’d be?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t. That’s why I went to your apartment. The supermarket. The café. Now… here. Around the loop. Multiple times.”

He points to the road below our feet. In case I don’t know what “here” means.

I have to admit this makes happiness swell inside me, despite my reservations. But why is he here?

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. No. It depends who you ask. Can we talk?”

“Mm. I’m kind of in the middle of something,” I say. “This isn’t the best time for a talk.” We both know I’d love any excuse to abandon my run. But I’m not stopping everything for anyone who can’t be bothered to do the same.

Not today, sir. Not today.

Not that I reached out either, but where has he been? He has been absent since the festival. He gave up so easily. Didn’t even offer an explanation.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not fear; it’s wisdom that keeps me running.

Although in his defense, it does seem as if maybe he has derailed his day to find me. And possibly ruined his tee. Will that neckline ever be the same? Still. I will not be so easily swayed.

“Fine,” he breathes. “We don’t have to stop or talk. I’ll just keep running with you until you’re done. Until you’re ready.”

If I’m honest, I am ready . My Lululemon sports bra is being tested. But I am committed to showing him who’s boss.

Me. That’s who.

I drop my arms intentionally low, my hands dangling down by my thighs. I raise my eyebrows, baiting him. He purses his lips shut. Nope. He will not lecture me. He will not give me an excuse to flee.

“Don’t you want to tell me to hold my hands higher?”

“Not really,” he grunts.

“What about my gait? How’s my gait?” I say, throwing my legs around in the world’s most erratic way.

I watch him suppress a smirk. “It’s perfect.”

That’s when I get my earbuds tangled up on my wrist and, while looking down trying to sort it, trip over—maybe nothing? “Shit!”

I am about to hit the ground, surrendering to a scraped knee and shattered ego, when I am caught around the rib cage by two strong hands. Poking out from a perfect hoodie.

“Whoa!” he says, helping me to standing and ushering me to the side of the loop and onto the grass. “What is wrong with you?”

“Why do you always ask me that when I fall? Whatever happened to ‘Are you okay?’ When did that become not enough?”

“Be honest,” he says. “When you said ‘all tied up,’ you meant with your earbuds.”

I shoot him a look, smooth my pony.

“Do you want to keep going?”

I don’t. I really don’t. I am sick of running. From him. From this. On the loop. But I don’t want to admit it. Admitting it means confronting all the things.

If I hear him out and we can’t make sense of things, I have to give up all hope. If I hear him out and we both want to try, I’ll be vulnerable.

How do I know he’s different? That he won’t turn into a Cliff?

Do I want to keep going? “Do you ?”

His hands are planted on both hips as he leans over. He is breathing like an elderly bulldog. But he calls my bluff: “I’m in until you’re done. I’m on your clock.”

“What if I go ten more miles?”

He doesn’t even point out the absurdity—no, sheer impossibility—of that notion. Or the fact that he’s wearing jeans and has been running all over the city. He is a man who is willing to wait on me.

“I can go all day,” he says, looking at his watch. “Well. Until pick-up.”

That gets my attention. I snap to it. My eyes on his. I feel myself sucked in by the gravity of his pupils, dwarfing the flecked brown. “Pick-up?” I repeat. “But you don’t do pick-up.”

He stands up a little taller, holds my gaze. Like he’s a kid announcing he’s become a man. “I do now.”

I consider him, this person who has quite literally run all over town to find me. Who has risked his job to hire me. Risked his career to call out a figure like Martin, the misogynist shit face. A man who is trying his best.

The rest of the mad goes out of me.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll talk.” If I ever catch my breath.

“Okay, great. I’m going to start, if that’s okay?” He looks genuinely relieved, but also focused. “Look, I’m sorry. I need to say that first and foremost. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the job before putting you up for it. I’m sorry I didn’t make sure you understood who my ex-wife was and how much she…”

“Detests me?”

“Yes. That. I won’t even sugarcoat it. For what it’s worth, she has never been a great judge of character. Present company included.”

“Fair enough,” I sigh, hugging myself. A hand on each of my own shoulders. “But why did you do it? Why omit all those details?”

“Sasha,” he says, his eyes boring into mine in a way that hits me in all the places. “I like you. Like really like you. Maybe even… anyway. There are reasons, for sure. Qualities that draw me to you. But, more than that, it’s that feeling. Like I’ve known you forever and always will. But you have been poised to run since the first moment I met you—for the second time.” He breaks eye contact, kicks a pebble with his shoe. Boots. He’s been running in his boots . “I think I was afraid to scare you off.”

I know there is truth in his words. I cannot deny my instinct to flee—at a moderate to slow clip. “Fair enough,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “But how do I know it won’t happen again?”

“You don’t,” he says.

We sit with that for a moment.

“You don’t. You want honesty and there it is. I’m coming off a relationship where we shared minimal information that mattered. Where I avoided interacting—even showing up—in order to keep the peace. Even if I tell you now that I will always be forthcoming about every detail of every single element of our lives together, that I will try as hard as I can, which I will, you can’t know. No one ever can in a relationship. And that’s one of the risks with this.”

Our lives together . Those words hover in the air between us, strange and magnetic. A whole life. And, actually, to my surprise, the words don’t scare me. I like how they look, how they sound. I want to try them on my tongue.

I realize with a jolt: I am in.

“I can’t make this decision for you,” he is saying, running a hand up and down his stubble. “I wish I could. But I can’t decide what you want or what you can handle. You have to get there on your own. That was my hesitation after our argument in Turks and Caicos too. You have to want this as badly as I do or it isn’t going to work. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes. But I can’t have the pendulum swing back and forth—because one minute you’re inviting me into the shower; the next you’re swearing we’re doomed.”

“I feel like there was some stuff in between those two things.”

He gazes toward the path for a beat, then back up at my face. There is an intensity in his eyes, a furrow in his brow that unravels me. Now that I realize I want this, I know I also want to take away his pain. He takes a step toward me. I drop my hands. “I ran here to find you to ask you not to choose fear,” he says. “Choose nights on the couch. Days in the park. Crispix shopping in tandem. Choose annoying events and ridiculous photo shoots. Choose the awkward blending of our families and run-ins with my ex. Choose getting screwed. With me .”

And there is no way I can say no. To any of it. I want it all. Messiness be damned.

I take a step closer to Ethan. I pretend it’s because I want to give us some privacy. But really I just want to be as near to him as possible.

“It’s true that you come with some baggage,” I say. “And you could have told me your ex-wife hated me with the fire of a thousand suns. That might have been helpful forewarning. I’m not sure our kids like each other, and also you are very condescending when it comes to making cotton candy. And running.” I sigh, stick my chin in the air. “But you’re a really good kisser and that’s not something I want to live the rest of my life without experiencing again.”

This last part catches him by surprise. He works to suppress a smile. Manages, sort of. “So, what does that mean?”

“It means,” I say, forcing myself to hold his gaze no matter how naked I feel, “that I will stop with the push and pull. No one will be drawn and quartered today. That I’d like to date you. I choose us .”

To my surprise, what I feel, more than anything, in accepting his proposition, in giving in to my base desires despite the obvious complications, is relief. Not panic. Not worry. I trust him. I trust us. I don’t want to fight myself anymore.

“You want to date me?” he says.

“Yes.”

“And kiss me?”

“That seems like an implicit part of the package, but yes. Sure. If I need to lay it all out: I’d like to date you and make out with you. Regularly. Because, the thing is, I really, really like you. And that doesn’t happen to me—ever.”

“You do?” He shoots me a small smile.

“Yes. Because you’re smart and funny and kind and good—and you look really great in T-shirts.”

“Hm. Even if I wear Tevas? You’ll still like me then?”

I toggle my head. “Yes. Even then… probably.”

He eyes me sideways, his lips pressed together as he assesses. Is this real? “It’s not always going to be simple.”

“I know. I can handle it.”

As if on cue, Green Vest jogs by in a green workout set. She spots us and raises a hand in greeting. “Hi, guys!”

We wave back.

“Has Kaitlin assigned each of her friends a color to wear?”

“It’s possible.” Ethan sighs. “But that’s a perfect example: that woman will likely report on us. People will be in our business. And you may not always like what they say or do.” His voice grows quiet. “Your kids may hear things and not always like that too.”

I nod. This has occurred to me. Multiple times as I lay awake in my bed, staring at my ceiling and wondering how my kids managed to stick a unicorn puffy sticker all the way up there. And, to be honest, my desire to block for my children is one of the biggest obstacles to overcome. But this is the work.

“Ethan. Are you talking me into this or out of this?”

“I don’t want to talk you in any direction at all.” He shakes his head. “I want you to know. On your own. I want you to be ready. And know that I’m here when and if you are.”

How can I explain? Encapsulate everything that has gotten me to this place?

“I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about what I can’t give my kids,” I say. Now, it’s my turn to kick a pebble, smash some leaves with my toe. “But I’ve realized I need to accept the reality of inevitably failing them sometimes, no matter the pain. It’s not possible to protect them entirely. Not without robbing all of us of something. They need to learn resilience. So, perfection is no longer the goal.” It was never attainable anyway. “Ethan, I think the reason I didn’t remember you after we first met and had what I’m sure was a significant conversation is that I wasn’t open to seeing the truth yet. And I think that’s been a big barrier for me all along, in many ways. I haven’t been truly open to what I want.”

Ethan runs a hand through his hair. Nods. I want to do the same. Run my fingers over his head and down his neck, lodge myself in the crook of his arm. Inhale his mowed-lawn cologne. But I realize we’re not there yet.

I can’t believe I was ever willing to let him go.

“I understand that it’s not the same for us,” he is saying. “I know that being a mother is different from being a father. But, for the sake of my relationship with my ex-wife too, I’m taking more on. Not only the logistical stuff, but also the sense of compromise. The load.”

“They should come up with a better word for that.”

“Agreed.”

He runs a hand along his jaw again, a stress tell—and I can see how worried he’s been. “Ethan,” I say, “I’m sorry things have been so hard—with Ruby, with Kaitlin. It’s all going to be okay.”

He exhales sharply. “Thank you.”

“What’s the latest with Kaitlin?” I ask.

“She’s going to stay with her sister for a few weeks in Northern California.”

“That sounds nice.”

“That sounds necessary. She definitely needs to regroup. We need to regroup.”

“Of course.”

“But we talked this morning,” he says. “I think she’s really going to try to accept this—us.”

I am not Kaitlin’s biggest fan. And I do not look forward to future interactions with her. But, I have to admit, I do understand some of what motivated her. What do you do when you’ve misplaced your identity? Become a jumble of errands and dinners? A snack dispenser? A nag? How do you construct a new sense of self? If the present doesn’t look how you’d hoped, maybe you look to the past. To the moment when things went awry or when you last remember feeling whole. Or when you last recall feeling a thrill. Or hopeful. Or full of promise. Or maybe, if you’re me, you hunker down and become an immutable object, fixed to the spot where you’ve landed, whether it serves you or not.

In the not too distant future, I will catch Kaitlin’s eye from down the street outside of school, as families weave in and around us like space dyed yarn. And we will not look away.

“I didn’t steal her boyfriend,” I say again. “At least not on purpose.” I don’t know why it matters at this point. But it bothers me that Ethan might think that about me.

“She always had a little hang-up about you,” he says. “I guess it turned into a full-blown projection.”

“And now her worst nightmare confirmed,” I say, gesturing between the two of us.

“Well, ironically, all her sabotage kind of forced us to get to know each other. Maybe unconsciously she was pushing us together to prove herself right.”

“Right?” I crinkle my nose.

He twists his mouth to one side. “She saw me looking at you at some event a few months ago, long after we separated,” he admits. “She thought I had a crush on you.” He looks shyly down at the ground. “Maybe I did.”

I try not to grin, but I can’t help it. “You liked me even before you stole the sweatshirt!”

“Well, I don’t know about liked. I thought you were hot. And we had one good conversation on the playground—that you promptly forgot. The sweatshirt debacle made your personality seem questionable at best.”

“I knew it!”

“You knew it?”

“Well, no. Not at all. But I like it!”

“I bet you do.” He tilts his head. “How’s your sting, by the way? All healed?”

“I’ve filed for worker’s comp,” I deadpan. “That jellyfish will be hearing from my lawyer. No, seriously. I’m just glad my fall got cut from the video before anyone saw it.”

His expression glitches in a deeply suspicious way.

“Excuse me,” I say, pointing at him. “What was that on your face?”

“Nothing!”

“Ethan?”

“I may have watched that clip—on repeat this last week.”

“Oh my God!” I punch him in the arm. He rubs the spot where I made contact in mock pain.

“I couldn’t help it! It’s hilarious!” He smiles. And it’s dreamy. Asymmetrical dimple and all. I could get lost in that smile. Who needs a map?

“But you liked it?” I say. “Derek said you liked how it turned out?” I’m surprisingly anxious to hear his thoughts.

He nods. “Not just me.”

“Corporate? The publisher?!”

He smiles. “Our jobs are all safe, for now.”

“Ethan! That’s amazing!” I grab his hands. They’re warm and strong.

“Sasha,” he says, hanging on.

“You know it kills me when you say my name.”

“Sasha. Sasha. Sasha.”

“Are you trying to destroy me?” I pretend to faint into his arms.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, looking down at me as I turn to face him, pressing my body up against his. He smells like him. And I missed it.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

I nod, my lips now inches from his mouth. I am hypnotized. “I was afraid and all over the place,” I say quietly. “And you were an idiot. But now I’d like to get on top of things. On top of you .”

His eyes crinkle and spark. He narrows his gaze. “That can be arranged.”

Then, he leans in and kisses me, in the middle of that park for all the moms and dads and their vests to see. And I am all about it. It starts shallow and goes deep, his arms encircling me, his hands pressed into the small of my back. It hits me at my core and I melt into him on every level. This is the kind of daily workout routine I can get behind.

This, I dare say, could be love.

When we finally pull apart, reluctantly as hell, he says, “We should get going. Before this gets obscene.” His lids are heavy.

“Or after,” I suggest, and wiggle my eyebrows. “Give the people a show!”

“Did you finish your three miles?”

“I actually don’t know! But I am definitely done running for today.”

“Wow,” he says. “You broke your rule! You didn’t run exactly three miles.”

“I’m rewriting lots of rules these days.” I give him one of my signature winks. It is terrible.

He shakes his head, laughs. “You should never do that. Not in public.”

I realize I love his laugh. And his T-shirts and his generosity and even his stupid-ass lectures. Well, sort of. I think back to our time on the island. How hard I tried to fight it.

“You look tired,” I say now, sweeping my fingers over his jaw. “We should go to bed.”

“Ah, I wish,” he says, his hand drifting lower on my back. “You have no idea how much. But I have somewhere to be. And so do you.”

“What? Where?” I look at my phone. “Oh, damn! It’s time for pick-up.”

“Want to go together?”

“Ethan. Are you asking me out to pick-up? Our first date!”

“So, this is a date, but dinner on the moonlit beach wasn’t? You’re a very strange woman,” he says. Then he stops short. “Oh, wait! I almost forgot!”

I feel the absence of his hands, when he swings his backpack off one shoulder and unzips it from the top. He digs inside and pulls out a super-squished plastic-wrapped pink cotton candy.

“For you,” he says, presenting the pastel lump to me like a bouquet.

I am touched. Like for real. “For me? It’s like an edible corsage!”

“That’s the best kind. They were selling it at the stand up by the park entrance. It seemed like an ideal peace offering. Sorry it’s mushed.”

“It’s not mushed,” I say, cradling it to my chest. “It’s artistic!”

“If you say so.”

I remove the plastic and toss it in the garbage, rip off a fluffy chunk and let it disintegrate on my tongue. “Mmm.”

“Good?”

“Best thing to happen to me all day.”

He shoots me a Really? look.

“Okay. Second best.”

“You don’t want to wait to eat it?”

“What? And have to share it with the kids?”

I pull off a chunk and pop it in his mouth. He lets it melt. Nods like it’s pretty good. I kiss him one more time for good measure. It’s sticky and sweet. I want seconds.

But I will have to wait.

He weaves his fingers through mine, and we start walking around the loop toward school, runners rushing past us in various states of hyperventilation. I hear a rustle in the trees above us. Some birds are having a rap battle. Maybe in our honor.

As we near the park’s exit, we pass the playground on our right. I glance over at some toddlers squealing as they take turns throwing themselves down the mini slide, and I don’t know if I’m inventing it or if it’s real, but, all at once, I am flooded with a memory of pushing Nettie in a swing. Beside me is a dad, pushing his own daughter as we chat. He’s adorable and funny and, I think, maybe in another lifetime….

Could it be?

Now, Ethan leans into me. Nudges me with his elbow. Then throws his arm around my shoulders. Sends a shiver of electricity coursing through every part of me. I reach up and nuzzle into his neck.

I am happy. Sexually frustrated. But happy.

“Rain check for tomorrow?” I say. “For the going-to-bed thing?”

“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes, like he’s considering it. “No. I don’t think so.”

“What! Why?”

“The thing is, now that you have this edible corsage and everything, I think maybe we shouldn’t waste it. I think I need to take you out. Tonight.”

I stop short and look up at him. I want to go so badly, but there is no way.

“Ethan! I don’t have a babysitter.”

“Actually, you do.”

“I do? How?”

He nods, placing a hand on each of my shoulders. “Celeste is taking your kids for the night.”

“What? How?” I am in shock.

He tucks my hair behind my ear. “I may have reached out. And, before you ask, no, she doesn’t mind. She seemed pretty supportive, actually.”

I lean my cheek against his palm. “Ethan.”

“Sasha.”

“That’s so nice. And so cocky. What if I hadn’t forgiven you?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “I rolled the dice. I hoped. Optimism.”

I am touched. And excited. A puddle. A ball of bliss.

I step forward and meld to his chest, my eyes welling. I feel so lucky to have landed here in this hopeful place.

“So, is this a yes?” he asks, looking down at me with eyes that dance.

“Hmm. I don’t know if I’m free.” I shrug. “You know me. I’m all tied up.”

“I can work with that,” he says. And he leans down and kisses me again.