alongside her. Like a dog with a bone, she wouldn’t relinquish the topic of Farrah’s dating life until she’d gotten some meat.
“Maybe.” Farrah sprinted ahead, but Blanca easily caught up with her, Ana flanking her other side. She was trapped between two of the clubs biggest yentas. By the time they made it around the track once, she’d be mincemeat, every scrap of her private life dissected—and likely ridiculed.
“What’s ‘maybe?’ Did he ask you out?” Blanca pressed, practically breathing into Farrah’s face, her arm bangles jangling in the cool breeze that signaled the approach of night.
“That’s my business, not yours.” Farrah tried shutting the door.
“Until I’m at your wedding, crying my eyeballs out, it’s my business, too,” Blanca shot back. She wasn’t a good friend and running partner for nothing. “He was simpatico, chica. Very easy on the eyes.”
“Did you see his chest in that tight little T-shirt he was wearing?” Ana put in on Farrah’s other side.
“Back off, ladies. This is a workout, okay?” Farrah tried to speed up, but Blanca blocked her with her compact body.
“Baby, we’re going to work you over until you dish,” she said.
“Not now, you’re not.” Cutting to the right, she moved around Ana, then sprinted ahead. For the moment, she was free of their questions. For a warm-up, this had turned into a race against yenta torture. She’d be exhausted before the actual workout began.
“Okay, guys, let’s get started,” John called out, to Farrah’s relief. She angled to get away from Blanca and Ana, hiding on the other side of the almost six-foot tall form of Libby Jones. Whispers, then laughter floated toward her from her friends’ direction.
“We’re going to build a pyramid tonight. We’ll do two 400s, an 800, a 1200, an 800, then finish up with two 400s again.”
Groans and grunts of disapproval greeted him on all sides.
“Guys, it’s an easier workout than usual, if you add it up.” Farrah knew John was perfectly aware that everyone grunted and groaned, no matter what type of workout he announced. It was part of the trash-talking team spirit of the group, like being hounded about one’s love life by Ana and Blanca. Blanca was right. Their track club was like family.
“Okay, let’s get going. Two sets of stride outs to get started,” he called out. “Ready—go!”
Farrah took off, using long lean strides, low to the ground. Stride outs were part of the warm-up and cool-down for the workout, designed to stretch out runners’ thigh muscles. They strode out for the first half-length of the track, then slowed to a recovery jog for the remaining half.
“So, are you going to see him again?” Blanca asked, sidling up to Farrah after the group passed the 200-yard mark, halfway around the track.
“If I say ‘Yes,’ will you stop bugging me?” Farrah asked, her smile belying her harsh words. Blanca was a dear friend. She had helped her move almost three years earlier, lugging boxes up and down three flights of stairs from Farrah’s tiny Manhattan studio apartment to the spacious new one-bedroom she’d found in Riverdale. She had laughed herself silly over Farrah’s description of Will after the break up, referring to him ever after as Farrah’s ballet boy. It had made Farrah laugh, too, although her heart had hurt.
“Only if it’s true,” Blanca responded.
“Okay. It’s true. I’m going to see him again.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
“Next month? Why are you waiting ’til next month? Do you know how many women he could meet between now and next month?” Blanca demanded.
“I’m going to do Leatherman’s Loop. He’s running it, too.”
“That’s a race, not a date!” Blanca snorted in disgust. “What about a date? Didn’t he ask you out?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what to say.”
“That is so lame.” She shook her head. “You say ‘Yes!’ How hard is that?”
“Because I don’t know him
“Maybe.” Farrah sprinted ahead, but Blanca easily caught up with her, Ana flanking her other side. She was trapped between two of the clubs biggest yentas. By the time they made it around the track once, she’d be mincemeat, every scrap of her private life dissected—and likely ridiculed.
“What’s ‘maybe?’ Did he ask you out?” Blanca pressed, practically breathing into Farrah’s face, her arm bangles jangling in the cool breeze that signaled the approach of night.
“That’s my business, not yours.” Farrah tried shutting the door.
“Until I’m at your wedding, crying my eyeballs out, it’s my business, too,” Blanca shot back. She wasn’t a good friend and running partner for nothing. “He was simpatico, chica. Very easy on the eyes.”
“Did you see his chest in that tight little T-shirt he was wearing?” Ana put in on Farrah’s other side.
“Back off, ladies. This is a workout, okay?” Farrah tried to speed up, but Blanca blocked her with her compact body.
“Baby, we’re going to work you over until you dish,” she said.
“Not now, you’re not.” Cutting to the right, she moved around Ana, then sprinted ahead. For the moment, she was free of their questions. For a warm-up, this had turned into a race against yenta torture. She’d be exhausted before the actual workout began.
“Okay, guys, let’s get started,” John called out, to Farrah’s relief. She angled to get away from Blanca and Ana, hiding on the other side of the almost six-foot tall form of Libby Jones. Whispers, then laughter floated toward her from her friends’ direction.
“We’re going to build a pyramid tonight. We’ll do two 400s, an 800, a 1200, an 800, then finish up with two 400s again.”
Groans and grunts of disapproval greeted him on all sides.
“Guys, it’s an easier workout than usual, if you add it up.” Farrah knew John was perfectly aware that everyone grunted and groaned, no matter what type of workout he announced. It was part of the trash-talking team spirit of the group, like being hounded about one’s love life by Ana and Blanca. Blanca was right. Their track club was like family.
“Okay, let’s get going. Two sets of stride outs to get started,” he called out. “Ready—go!”
Farrah took off, using long lean strides, low to the ground. Stride outs were part of the warm-up and cool-down for the workout, designed to stretch out runners’ thigh muscles. They strode out for the first half-length of the track, then slowed to a recovery jog for the remaining half.
“So, are you going to see him again?” Blanca asked, sidling up to Farrah after the group passed the 200-yard mark, halfway around the track.
“If I say ‘Yes,’ will you stop bugging me?” Farrah asked, her smile belying her harsh words. Blanca was a dear friend. She had helped her move almost three years earlier, lugging boxes up and down three flights of stairs from Farrah’s tiny Manhattan studio apartment to the spacious new one-bedroom she’d found in Riverdale. She had laughed herself silly over Farrah’s description of Will after the break up, referring to him ever after as Farrah’s ballet boy. It had made Farrah laugh, too, although her heart had hurt.
“Only if it’s true,” Blanca responded.
“Okay. It’s true. I’m going to see him again.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
“Next month? Why are you waiting ’til next month? Do you know how many women he could meet between now and next month?” Blanca demanded.
“I’m going to do Leatherman’s Loop. He’s running it, too.”
“That’s a race, not a date!” Blanca snorted in disgust. “What about a date? Didn’t he ask you out?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what to say.”
“That is so lame.” She shook her head. “You say ‘Yes!’ How hard is that?”
“Because I don’t know him
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