Running Forward
RUNNING FORWARD
Bronx
Thanks to my new lawyer, Charlotte spent her three days of school suspension with me. Three days and three nights for us to catch up on the last six months, with me downloading and reading her new favorite books, watching her new favorite TV shows, and learning a new eleven-year-old girl language.
Which means that this Sunday morning feels more lonely than last Sunday. When I dropped Charlotte off at Sloan’s and had to pry my little girl’s arms from around my neck, Sloan had to promise that I would pick her up from school on Wednesday. With no accusations of violence or safety concerns, my new lawyer has already facilitated a temporary schedule granting me forty percent custody, more than I hoped for.
I arrive at the Park Run starting point with half an hour to spare. I used to run with my then friendship group. Almost one dozen of us ran together, hiked together, and went away camping with our families, together. Then, my marriage imploded, and friends chose sides. Wives chose Sloan and my best friend. Husbands followed.
I didn’t blame them then, and I still don’t. Life is too short for blame or hate and I’m finally ready to join a new Park Run group and meet new friends.
As I start my stretching—because after thirty my muscles need more warming up than they did when I was twenty—I feel a sense of anticipation. I miss running. I miss the adrenaline of getting in the zone and competing with myself.
With a visitation schedule in place, I have a new lease on life and can look to the future.
I enjoy cooking and miss hosting dinner parties. After twelve months of separation, perhaps I should reach out to old friends and see who wants to taste my twenty-four-hour slow-cooked pork done in apple cider vinegar, star anise, and root vegetables.
And then there is running.
If I drop off Charlotte on Saturday mornings and come for a run, then I’ll avoid the silence of a broken home. Yes. New job, sharing new recipes with new friends, and a new running routine. See? I can do this single-father thing #winning.
“Well, Bronx Parker. Of all the Park Runs in all the world, you turn up at mine.”
I turn towards the female voice, surprised anyone recognized me in a baseball cap and generic running gear.
She is stunning, not in the way you see in magazines but what I call a real woman with curves in all the right places, dressed for comfort and not fashion. She might know me, but with her light brown hair pulled into a high ponytail through the back of a visor and dark glasses hiding her eyes, I’m at a disadvantage. Her smirking smile seems genuine, and I feel the same stirrings as when I met Charlotte’s teacher. See, the old man isn’t dead, yet.
“Hi, I’m Bronx and I’m indeed gatecrashing your Park Run,” I say, standing straighter, tightening my abs, and offering her my hand.
“I know.” She dips her glasses down to flash the same beautiful turquoise eyes that I've dreamt of for three nights. “I'm Willow.”
The world doesn’t hate me.
“Oh, sorry for not recognizing you.” I don’t release her hand, and she doesn’t pull it away. “I meant to call the school and leave a message. Thank you for everything you’ve done for Charlotte. She told me how safe she feels with you when she isn’t up to dealing with the playground.”
“I’d be lying if I didn’t say Charlotte has a special place in my heart.”
“Wanna run together?” I ask, not knowing how I’ll react if she rejects me. This isn’t a date. But it could be the first time I spend with a woman while wanting it to be a date.
“Do you think you can keep up?” She shoots me a look and turns to take her place in the starting lineup. But Willow doesn’t release my hand. I’m pulled along to run with her and I feel lighter than I have in months.
For the first time in forever, I run without a competitive bone in my body. When Willow slows down to take a break, we talk. After she catches her breath, we run.
“Are you training to get back on the field?” Willow pants, as we slow.
“Nah, I used to run with another group and needed a change.” I take a swig of water while she does the same. “What about you? A budding Olympian?”
“I wish,” she snorts out a mouthful of water with her laugh and it is the most adorable thing I’ve seen. “I needed a hobby and friends recommended running or online dating.”
“I’m going to leave that alone,” I say with a laugh. “Not that I know anything about online dating.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything worse than parents at school seeing my dating profile, and I hope running will work off all the food I love to eat.”
“You look perfectly proportioned to me.” Okay, I allow myself a long, lazy inspection of her body, just so she knows it’s appreciated. “Do you prefer to cook or eat?”
“Both, what about you?”
We walk the next kilometer as people overtake us. Willow describes her favorite cookie recipe with sour cream instead of butter. I tell her how I prefer to crush up blocks of chocolate instead of using chocolate chips to deliver unexpected surprises.
When we break into another jog, I take it easy and fall into step, trying to decide what other recipe to discuss but she takes the decision out of my hands.
“Okay,” she gasps and stops, bending over with hands on her thighs to catch her breath. “You’re on death row and can only choose one cake.”
“Boil and blend blood oranges, use almond meal instead of flour, best chocolate I can find, chocolate cake.”
“I’m sensing a theme here and it’s going straight to my ass,” she sighs. “Bad chocolate, bad chocolate.”
“Would you be offended if I say you have a cute ass, and I have a sudden urge to feed you chocolate?”
“Mr. Parker, are you hitting on me?”
“Ms Caton, are you going to give me detention if I am?”
“How would you serve the orange and chocolate cake?”
“With a side serving of whipped cream and chopped strawberries.”
“If you throw a handful of raspberries in, I might even eat it.”
“Yes,” I say before stretching for another run.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’m hitting on you and yes, I’d like to make you dinner that ends in the chocolate cake of your dreams.”
“How about I cook you dinner, and you bring the cake.”
“Deal.”
We talk about everything and anything as I finish with my worst run time, and the best time. Willow Catan has made me laugh more in the last hour than I’ve laughed in years, and as she drives off, I’m counting the minutes to our first date.