When I Ran Away Ilona Bannister (best free ebook reader .txt) 📖

recognition that his future lies somewhere else. “I’m glad I saw you again,” I say, looking at the ground, because the eyes are too much.

I turn to go, Johnny running ahead of me. I know Harry’s watching us walk away but my ass isn’t what it used to be. Nothing’s what it used to be. I regret every step but I don’t turn around.

On the subway back to Brooklyn Johnny leans his whole little body into me while he zooms his Matchbox car in the air, pretending it’s a rocket, his eyes turned to a galaxy that only he can see on the ceiling of the C train. I watch Johnny play and feel bad about myself. What a loser. That was my chance, a one-in-a-million chance of finding him again and now it’s over. Jesus, Gigi, get a grip. A nonexistent boyfriend from a decade ago. You’re right, I know.

I watch Johnny whizz his car-rocket around, tell him to be careful not to bump the lady next to us, who’s acting like she’s not annoyed but clearly is. In Johnny’s other hand he’s clutching a white business card. I say, “What’s this, baby?”

“It’s mine from in my pocket.” He won’t let go of it.

“Let me see. Where did you get…” I wrestle it from his hand, in case it’s something dirty he picked up off the floor, expecting an ad for tarot card reading or a taxi service. I flip it over and read: Harry Harrison, Vice President, European Equity Sales.

Brooklyn and Manhattan, October 2012–September 2013

“Jeej, c’mon, remember what Tyra says. If you’re doing legs, don’t do boobs at the same time,” Stacy says, reviewing my outfits. She came over to do my makeup and babysit Johnny so I could go meet Harry. She rejects every dress I try on until we finally get to the black one. Tight, bare shoulders but no cleavage and short. Not that I have such great legs, but Stacy let me borrow her nice heels so they look alright.

“Should I put some tanner on my legs? I don’t know about this, Stace,” I ask her through the mirror.

“Absolutely no fake tan. Have you learned nothing from watching Top Model for ten years?”

“Belt?”

“No belts! Jesus, what an amateur.”

She sits me down to work on my face. “What’re we doing here? Big eyes or big lips? One or the other, never both. And are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“What?”

“Jeej, this guy—it’s a little crazy.”

“I know.”

“Turn this way so I can do your foundation,” she says, tilting my chin toward her. “I just don’t want you to get too wrapped up in it. You haven’t been out with anyone for forever, so I don’t want you to get too excited, in case he’s not what you think. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, I do,” I say, but I don’t. I’m worried all the time. I’m sad and alone. I’m so tired of being alone. I love that kid so much that it’s ripping my heart out to leave him tonight. I’m wearing a dress that cost eighteen bucks from one of the stalls on Canal Street and borrowed shoes and I got enough makeup on for three hookers. Like an asshole, I decided to cut my hair yesterday, and now I look like Posh Spice in an outfit from Walmart. I’m meeting a man who gave his business card to my kid so his “friend” wouldn’t see. But I think I love him because he bought me coffee once years ago. I have no idea what I’m doing.

But then his hand presses into the small of my back to protect me from the homicidal taxicabs and he slows to my pace and covers me like a shield. Just with the press of his hand on my back to cross the street he’s told me what kind of man he is. I’ve always known.

He takes me to a pulsing-velvet-champagne-lounge with the beautiful people. This part of New York that I’ve never had enough money to see. His eyes and hands tell me that me and my cheap dress belong here. With him. And I believe him.

Harry finds a place at the bar. I hop up on a stool and he keeps his hand on my waist, stronger, closer than before, resting on the top of my hip, making it clear that that space belongs to him. He gets the bartender’s attention, leans over me more than he has to. He whispers in my ear but I feel it everywhere. He smells like soap, clean-man skin and aftershave. He has stubble despite the shave and it scrapes my cheek but I like it.

Ice clinks in my vodka tonic when I raise my glass. I bite my straw, cross my legs and ask him if he likes my shoes. Make sure he gets the full view.

“They’re lovely, but I’m not sure how far you’d get in those.”

“They’re not for walking.”

He smiles, a sideways smile, the way men do when they’re trying not to show you how much they like you.

We’re supposed to go out for dinner after this but I’ve had a few drinks and I want to pretend that it’s ten years ago when I was younger and prettier, when I didn’t need so much foundation to hide the lines, because there were none. I tell my mid-thirties body to act like the girl in her twenties is still in there even if things around my middle are softer than they used to be. I wish he could’ve touched me back then.

The cab pulls into the circular driveway in front of one of the luxury high-rises in the forties along Tenth Avenue overlooking the Hudson. The lobby has pink marble walls and floors. A glass light sculpture the size of a car hangs suspended two stories above us. Uniformed doormen in navy-blue jackets sit behind the desk drinking coffee in paper cups and reading the New York Post.

“Good evening,