41. Running from Him
41
RUNNING FROM HIM
Rafe
I run along the River Thames, fog chasing me, tiny raindrops nicking my skin. My mobile is getting wet but I’m not putting it away for anything. The San Francisco Dragons are one out away from clinching a playoff spot, and I’m streaming the game. Gunnar said radio is better, but some things you need to see with your own eyes.
Like how he plays.
Gunnar mans third base, fierce concentration in his stance and the set of his jaw.
“C’mon,” I mutter, desperately hoping they win.
When the Devils batter delivers a sharp line drive Gunnar’s way, he lunges for it, sticking out his glove, and claiming that ball tight in the leather.
“Yes!”
I shout into the early dawn as Gunnar runs to embrace the pitcher, then the catcher, then the rest of the team. I beam at the melee on the mound. “Fucking yes!”
Another five AM runner smiles and gives me a nod then cruises on by. I keep running, watching the jubilation on the field. He must be ecstatic. I’m so damn happy for him but devastated I can’t be a part of his celebration.
A reporter pulls Gunnar aside and asks about his home run in the seventh.
When he answers that he blew that kiss for a friend, I nearly stumble. It’s as if a fist reached into my chest and ruthlessly squeezed my heart.
Who is this friend ?
He first blew a kiss for me, dammit. It was a secret sign, and here I am, thousands of miles away as he does it for a friend.
I’m so ridiculously far away and still I can’t escape my feelings. I’m stupidly jealous and terribly empty when I should be happy.
I slow my pace to a jog, tuck the phone into my pocket, and gaze at the boats that cruise along the murky brown ribbon that cuts through my hometown.
Where are they going? Where are they coming from? What are they doing?
What am I doing?
I have meetings day and night while I’m here and a deal to finalize. But afterward, in the larger sense?
I don’t know how to navigate this empty ache in my chest when I return to San Francisco. I thought I was safe from my obsession. I’ve put an ocean between Gunnar and me. Yet he still occupies my head and my whole damn heart.
I take out my phone, click on my texts, and set my jealousy aside. Whether he’s with someone or not, I do want to congratulate him.
Rafe: Congratulations on winning your division. The postseason looks good on you. Also, that was quite a catch.
I peel off another mile as I wait for any response. It’s late in San Francisco, and surely, he’s celebrating.
Thirty minutes later, he replies.
Gunnar: Thanks, man! Not going to lie, I am seriously stoked.
I laugh. His excitement is endearing. But I’m a little sad that he slipped so quickly into buddy mode, calling me man .
What did I expect, though? I designed my own situation. If we were together, he would have written back saying, I am quite a catch, and I’d have laughed and said, you are and you’re my catch.
Instead, I reply with something friendly. I hate being just friends with Gunnar Ford. I want more, but I’m clutching at the crumbs I have.
Rafe: I am certain you’ll have an amazing postseason.
God, I sound so businesslike when I miss him fiercely.
Gunnar: Wait... Did you watch it at five AM? Theresa mentioned you were in London.
I smile at his deduction and how he sounds like he’s busting me for being a fan. Or perhaps he’s simply delighted to know that I’d still tune in.
Rafe: It’s six AM now, but yes, I watched it while I was running. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Gunnar: And you didn’t trip and fall from epic excitement? Damn, you got game on your sneakered feet.
Now I laugh for real. Gunnar is so very Gunnar. Fun, outgoing, bold. Always teasing me. My God, he loved to knock me down a peg or two. And I loved when he did it.
I’m glad I reached out, even though I know I can’t survive on crumbs.
Rafe: This is the extent of my athletic prowess—running solo while watching my new favorite sport.
That feels a little like a big confession, but I think it’s one he’ll enjoy.
Gunnar: Yes! I knew you’d become a baseball fan. Greatest sport ever.
As I pass Big Ben, I stare at the note, a little hollow. That’s all I am now. Just a fan. He’s friendly to me, like he is to all the fans.
So when I ask myself where I am going, I now know the answer. I am going into this stage of connection with Gunnar—being a fan. That is all. That empty feeling grows like a cavern inside me.
I put on a brave face as I type out a reply.
Rafe: I’m definitely a fan.
And yet I’m still a horribly jealous man. A hungry man. A man consumed. My banked jealousy ignites, and I can’t stop myself.
Rafe: Who was the kiss for?
He’s quiet. There are no dots to tell me he’s typing. I’ve gone too far.
I probably don’t deserve an answer. My phone is quiet as I turn away from the river, slow to a walk, and head to my penthouse suite at the luxury hotel where I’m staying.
But at last, he replies.
Gunnar: A friend, like I said to the reporter. That friend’s name is Theresa. At the photo shoot today, we talked baseball and playoff hopes. She didn’t know it, but that conversation lifted my spirits. I’d been pretty fucking bummed because some pathetic part of me hoped that you’d be there. But talking to her cheered me up.
I didn’t think I could miss him more, but I do. I didn’t think I could feel worse about my decision, yet here I am, aching everywhere.
I’m such an arse.
I reach my hotel room, make it inside, and slump against the wall. I sink to the floor, my head falling against my knees. That fist squeezes my heart so hard it’s strangling it. But I choke out an answer.
Rafe: I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I had to leave town to tend to business in London.
I hit send but I hate myself for lying.
Gunnar: Enjoy the boats. Bye, Rafe.
It feels like goodbye forever.