When I Ran Away, Ilona Bannister [read 50 shades of grey TXT] 📗

A gust of wind, a seagull cry overhead, I want to touch his face. He says, “Well, I…you’re welcome, you would have done the same.” Another silence.

Then he says, “When we were allowed back into the building after the lockdown I looked for you. Waited in the lobby of your building too, checked for you in the coffee shop.”

“I didn’t go back. I couldn’t keep coming downtown every day. It was too close to where he died. I got a different job—in Midtown.” I don’t say that on the day I went to clean out my desk I waited for him in the coffee shop too, hoping he would come down. That one time, maybe five years ago, I thought I saw him on Wall Street walking and talking on his phone, but I was with my boss and we were late for a meeting and I couldn’t stop. But when the guy turned around I saw it wasn’t him and I was relieved because I don’t know what I would have said with my heart in my mouth, unable to catch my breath at the thought of finding him.

“Well, would you…” he starts to say as our eyes meet but then, “Jeej! Look at this!” Johnny runs over, grabs hold of my leg and shows me a red leaf.

“This is Johnny,” I say to Harry. “He’s the one who made this coffee.” I hold up my cup of dirt. Harry hides his surprise. He bends down to meet Johnny’s eyes and says, “Hello there, young man. I’m Harry. I saw you running. That was very fast indeed.”

Johnny says, “I’m three, then I’m gonna be four,” and gives Harry the leaf.

“Thank you very much, I don’t have one like this.” He stands up and looks at me from under his brow, I forgot his velvet lashes, how they framed his eyes, and he says, “Are you married, then?” Is he hurt, does it hurt him to think that?

“Um, no, but…” I’m about to explain, to tell him where Johnny came from, but behind me there’s a rush of perfume and affluence.

“Hello.” A tall, thin, gorgeous blonde. Prada sunglasses and a Burberry trench. A statement handbag so expensive that I don’t know the brand. She’s British too. Harry says, “Oh, right…Gigi, this is Hannah.” She looks at me and Johnny, appalled at my leggings and hoodie under my 1995 Gap jean jacket but otherwise indifferent. She’s decided that I’m not competition. Her sunglasses would pay half my rent, that coat would pay for a month of day care. I hate her and I want to be her, which makes me hate her more. I can tell they don’t have kids. She looks at Johnny in a way she must reserve for hotel maids and homeless people and people whose accents she can’t understand.

“Mmm, pleasure.” She doesn’t put out her hand. She turns away. Pretends to have to stand perpendicular to me because of the wind in her hair—her blow-dried, highlighted, expensive hair. I wonder if the word for “bitch” is the same in British.

Harry’s embarrassed by her rudeness, or I hope that he is. He says, “We haven’t seen each other for ten, eleven years, can you believe that, Hannah, just ran into each other right here.”

“Yes,” she says. “Well, we have reservations, don’t we, mustn’t be late.” She can’t wait to get out of here and away from our cheap clothes and real life so I string it out a little longer.

I say, “You going somewhere nice?”

Harry says, “Brunch at Soho House.”

“Oh, that is nice,” I say.

“Do you know it?” Hannah asks, surprised that the likes of me would know the name of a private members’ fancy-ass establishment.

“Yeah, Johnny loves their brunch, especially the Bloody Marys.” Harry laughs. Hannah disapproves. I blush and look away, trying not to be melted by his smile.

Johnny, who’s been holding on to my leg patiently, is getting restless now so I lift him up to my hip. This is coming to an end. Shit. At least when I didn’t know where Harry was I had a fantasy that I would find him someday and he would like me and maybe…but that was something I made up to look forward to in a future that I knew would never come. A memory I relied on to ease my loneliness. But he’s got this blond chick with the yoga body and the heels on Saturday morning. Of course he does, why wouldn’t he.

I watch as Harry bends down and pretends to tie his shoelace but then pulls a quarter from behind Johnny’s ear. The three of us smile at each other. I don’t know this man at all but there’s the feeling that no one knows me better than him. On the worst day of my life he bandaged my bleeding mother and poured whiskey for my trembling father. And now that he’s standing here, I know him too. I don’t know what he drinks or if he loves his mother, but I know him. And I’ve missed him.

I’m looking for the words to let him know somehow but then Johnny says, “Jeej, Jeej, I need a piss.” He sounds like a very small Al Pacino. Harry smiles and Hannah looks at me like I’m supposed to reprimand Johnny and be embarrassed, but I don’t because I’m not.

“Sorry,” I say to them. “You know they pick things up everywhere,” which is a lie because I know he picked it up from me. I say, “We’d better go.”

Harry says, “Gigi, wait, I…” but Hannah’s already turned to leave and stops to look at him over her shoulder, pissed off or maybe that’s just her face. He’s hers. So I defer.

“Um, I got to deal with Johnny. Nice to meet you, Hannah. Have a nice brunch or whatever.” Harry stands with his arms crossed and I lean forward to touch the visible bone of his wrist. A small show of gratitude for the past and