These Days Series: After Tuesday | Forgotten Yesterday | Deciding Tomorrow

by Renee Ericson

This must be one of the many he took with his phone that I never saw. Surely, I was pregnant at the time because there’s no other explanation as to why I would have a pillow shoved up my shirt, pretending to have a gigantic pregnant stomach, while balancing a pint of ice cream on top of it. Most notably though is the expression on my face. I had a glow I didn’t even know I was capable of producing.

  This is what happiness looks like.

  Obviously, I was imagining what I would look like when I reached full-term pregnancy. In reality, I never found out, though. The picture represents a lot of things—lost time, lost hope, and a lost life.

  I place the image back on the table and head into the bathroom to freshen up. The space is filled with granite and marble all along the sink and floor, a standard tub, and a large shower enclosed by a glass door.

  Brent’s place is amazing. It’s nicer than any apartment I’ve ever been to.

  Once my face is washed and my hair is brushed, I join Brent and his brother in the living room. Cohen is eating a bowl of cereal over the coffee table, and Brent is lazily scrolling through his phone.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, plopping into a chair.

  Cohen scoops another bite into his mouth, and Brent sits up, putting his phone on the table.

  “What’s going on? What’s the plan?” I ask.

  “So,” Brent says, leaning his elbows on his knees, “Johan is going to pick me up after lunch around one to head over to the stadium.”

  “The game is at six, right?” Cohen asks through a crunching mouthful.

  “Yeah, it is.” Brent stands and walks to the bar in the kitchen. “Your passes are here. I gave Cohen the keys to my car, and he’ll drive you over. He knows his way around.”

  “Yeah,” Cohen says, his tone full of evident cynicism. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know my way to the stadium and the airport.”

  “Is there anything else to see in L.A.?” I question sarcastically.

  “I wouldn’t know. My brother here never does anything fun.”

  “I can’t take you clubbing, Coh,” Brent retorts. “You’re not twenty-one yet.”

  “My fake would work,” he insists.

  “Yeah, just as much as fake money would work to get you out of jail.”

  Cohen makes a hissy-fit face while taking his bowl into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and produces a quart of orange juice. Popping off the top, he brings the jug to his mouth.

  “I do have glasses,” Brent says sternly. “In the cabinet.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Cohen places the jug on the counter and then reaches into an upper cabinet, retrieving a glass. “I was just messing with you.”

  Brent turns toward me and mouths, Asshole.

  I cover my mouth, withholding a laugh. “So, Cohen,” I call out, “what do you want to do before the game?”

  “Go clubbing,” he replies without missing a beat.

  Brent shakes his head.

  Three

  There’s a hard knock at the door just before one in the afternoon. Cohen is in the kitchen, stuffing his face with pretzels, while Brent and I are sitting on the couch, idly chitchatting about the weather and late-night television. He was just imitating a rapper who was a guest on a recent show. The impression wasn’t good.

  “That must be Johan,” Brent says, resting his palm on my knee. “Let me get that.”

  “Okay.”

  Passing the kitchen before walking down the short hallway, he says to Cohen, “Did you eat the whole bag?”

  “Maybe,” he mumbles.

  “Don’t they feed you at school?”

  “Nothing like the gourmet pretzel sticks you offer at your fine establishment. I’m living large.”

  Brent’s head shakes back and forth as he opens the door, revealing the blond I briefly met last week. I stand up, waiting to greet him again, as he follows Brent into the living room.

  “Hey, Cohen.” Johan signals toward the kitchen. His accent isn’t as thick as I remember. “Save any for me?” he asks, referring to the bag in Cohen’s hand.

  “Hey.” Cohen turns the bag upside down, causing crumbs to spill onto the floor. “Nope.”

  Brent grimaces, but he says nothing about the mess. “Ruby,” he says, standing next to me, “you remember Johan?”

  “I sure do. Hi.”

  I stretch out my hand, and he takes it, shaking it once.

  “Nice to see you again,” I add.

  “You, too.” He looks to Brent. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” Brent bends over to pick up his bag near the couch before shrugging it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you after the game. Cohen knows where to meet me. Make yourself at home.”

  He kisses me quickly on the cheek, and I blush slightly, feeling Johan and Cohen watching us.

  “Good luck, you two,” I encourage.

  “Thanks,” Johan says. Then, he pats Brent on the shoulder. “Let’s get going, so we aren’t late.”

  Brent leans in and kisses me full on the mouth. My lungs stop moving. I’m a little shocked at how brazen he’s being in front of the others. He squeezes my hand and then pecks my mouth again.

  “Let’s go,” he says to Johan.

  They walk toward the door, leaving me alone by the couch.

  “Cohen…” Brent says sternly to his brother who is still in the kitchen.

  “Yeah?” Cohen replies, shoving a dustpan full of crumbs into the garbage can.

  Brent glares at him. A message is being conveyed, but I don’t know what it is. “I’ll see you two later.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cohen says.

  And then, Brent and Johan are gone.

  Over the next few hours, it’s just Cohen and me. We spend our time together talking about his school—how classes are going, the girl he’s dating but isn’t serious about—and the fact that he tries to go to one of Brent’s games every month. I had no idea Cohen was such a soccer fanatic. He seems to know everything about the sport here in the States and overseas. I, on the other hand, know very little about the current teams or players. Having blocked out that part of my life—Brent’s life—for so long, my knowledge on the subject is limited to the cursory online research I conducted over the past week.

  When our courtesy conversation comes to a natural end, Cohen turns on a video game. I play with him for a little while, totally sucking at it, and then I go to Brent’s room to lie down before we leave. The trip has taken its toll, and I need to rest if I’m going to stay awake for the game.

  I slip under the covers on Brent’s bed, fully clothed, and I relax completely.

  Moments later, I’m being jostled awake. My eyes lazily open, unhappy to be doing so.

  “Hey, Ruby,” Cohen says. “We need to get going.”

  “Already?” I ask, my voice thick with sleep.

  “You’ve been in here for almost two hours.”

  “Shit.” I rub my forehead. “Sorry.”

  “No sweat. You must have been tired, but it’s time to go. I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

  I briefly freshen up and meet Cohen in the next room where he’s waiting for me with Brent’s car keys in one hand and his bag in the other. Brent mentioned earlier that his brother had to catch a red-eye flight and that we would be dropping him off at the airport directly after the game. I slip on my jacket, and moments later, Cohen and I are out the door and driving to the stadium.

  Finding a place to park is difficult even though we arrive at our destination more than an hour before the game starts. The parking lot is a sea of fans filled with men, women, kids, and families.

  “A lot of people are here,” I say, leaning forward in my seat.

  “Tailgating,” Cohen tells me as he puts the car into park. “They do this at every game, but there are more people than usual today because it’s a play-off game.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.”

  “Let’s go in.”

  “Okay.”

  I exit the car and meet Cohen nea
r the trunk, so we can walk together into the stadium. After passing the crowds, we make our way into the building and find our seats near the field. The stands are starting to fill with people heavily dressed in club colors. Both teams are already warming up on the green grass—dribbling and passing the ball and running what appear to be well-rehearsed plays.

  “He’s right there,” Cohen says, pointing to a group of players. “Next to Estavan and Lampert. They work plays together a lot.”

  “He’s starting, right?”

  “Should be. He usually does.”

  This is true. I did a little more research specifically on Brent after he left Chicago and headed back to L.A., only to find out that he is considered one of the league’s most promising players. In the last year with his current team, he’s had a total of nineteen goals, including one from the game on Thursday. He’s ranked third in the league. Other stats were mentioned in regard to shots and assists, and he was cited as being in the top ten for both. I had no idea he was excelling above and beyond many others in the league.

  “You said you try to go to at least one game a month?” I ask, making casual conversation while we wait for the game to commence.

  “Yeah, if I can. It’s easier when they’re on the East Coast, but he plays for the Western Conference, so most of his games are west of Texas.”

  “And Brent flies you out?”

  “Yep. A college student’s salary is pretty terrible.”

  “Tell me about it,” I reply in agreement. “What about your parents? Do they go to any of the games?”

  “Sometimes. Mom is really busy with work, and Dad hates to get on a plane, but they’ve been to a few.”

  A couple comes down the aisle, and we have to stand up to let them through to their seats. They’re a matching pair, wearing identical jerseys.

  “How about when he was in Sweden?” I ask, settling back into the seat. “Did you go to any of those games?”

  Cohen sits back and clasps his hands together. “None.”

  “Not even once? He was there for such a long time.”

  “Yeah”—he focuses on Brent running across the field—“he was.”

  There’s something Cohen isn’t saying.

  “Did you visit him at all?” I probe.

  He exhales through his nose, tightening his lips. “No.”

  “Not once in three years?”

  Running his hand through his sandy hair, he resembles his older brother. Their mannerisms are so similar.

  Cohen slumps slightly in his seat. “He went over there, and I didn’t see him at all. After he moved to Sweden, the first time I saw him was when he moved back to the States.”

  “Really? Huh. He never visited you guys?”

  “No.”

  My focus returns to the field, following Brent as he dribbles the ball and sends it into the goal. He was over there and never came back, not even to see his family. I wonder if it was because he was so busy, but that doesn’t seem right. Not once in three years? That is such a long time to be away from family.

  “Did you at least talk to him while he was there?” I ask, prying for more information.

  “Did you?”

  “A little,” I reply meekly, realizing I might have pushed a little too far. “Only the first month or so though. Then…we just kind of lost touch.”

  He gauges my face, I’m not sure why, and then returns his focus to the field. “I guess he didn’t talk to anyone then.”

  “Oh? You didn’t hear from him at all while he was over there?”

  “He sent birthday cards and stuff, a few emails here and there, but I didn’t talk to him at all until right before he moved to California. He called me a few months before he came stateside.”

  “Really?” This is all…strange. “Did he talk to your parents at all?”

  “My dad a little, I guess. My mom went to see him once, too.”

  “Maybe he was just really busy,” I offer in Brent’s defense even though I don’t believe the words crossing my lips.

  “Yeah, right,” Cohen huffs. “I highly doubt that. Plus, you don’t need to protect him. It’s all good now.”

  “Is it?”

  “Sure.” He rubs his hands along his thighs. “Life’s too short to be angry forever. I’m sure he was just mad at my parents. Heck, I was pissed to all hell over the whole thing. I was probably just collateral damage.” He pauses. “Who gets divorced after twenty-five years of marriage?”

  “I guess they do.” I shrug.

  “They sure do. It really messed with my head. I started to wonder about what was real and what was a lie. That whole what does is all mean thing kind of takes over. I’m sure it did for Brent, too.”

  “Yeah, I guess something like that would make you question everything.”

  “Anyhow,” he says, tapping his knee, “it was a long time ago. No reason to dwell on it.”

  We don’t say much more after that, and we turn our attention to the field. Brent and his teammates continue to run a few drills as the stands fill with people.

  It’s getting close to starting time, and the players head to the sidelines, clearing the field. Brent is talking with a fellow teammate as he makes his way to where his team is gathering. Just before he’s out of view behind the wall dividing the fans from the players, he looks directly at Cohen and I. He smiles at me, and my hand instinctually rises in a half-timid wave. Then, he proceeds out of our sight.

  “He told me how you guys met up again,” Cohen offers as a conversation topic over the growing noise of the crowd. “In Chicago where you work. Sounds kind of crazy.”

  “Yeah, it was. He was just there out of nowhere. I’d thought he was still in Sweden.”

  “And you just decided to come out here on a whim?”

  My actions are difficult to explain because my reasoning can’t be confined or defined by words. There’s no way to rationalize that to anyone. While flying here so suddenly might not be right or commonsensical to some, I had to come.

  My life, like many others, has been a series of hard and life changing decisions since I was old enough to make them, and I’ve always used logic and facts to make the best ones. But not this time. This was a decision beyond any reasoning of the mind, and it was made solely from the heart, a part of me that has been set aside for many years.

  “I guess you could call it a whim,” I answer Cohen. “But…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like one. It feels…different, like I’m…” I shake my head. “Never mind.”

  He guffaws.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?” I ask again.

  “You sound like him.”

  “Who? Brent?”

  “Yeah.” He laughs.

  “How do I sound like him?”

  He waves his hand, trying to close the discussion. “Brent would kill me.”

  “What?” I nudge his shoulder.

  He grins widely.

  “Cohen!”

  “No way.”

  “Oh, c’mon! You can’t do that and then give me nothing. That’s not fair.”

  Crickets.

  “Cohen!”

  “All right, Ruby!” he teases, loving that he has the upper hand. “All I’m going to say is that he’s turned into a bit of a dick since you last knew him. He’s my brother, so I shouldn’t talk about him like this, but even though we hang out and I see him now…well, he’s not exactly that much…fun anymore.”

  “Oh. Really?” I shrug. “I’m sure I’m not the same either. We were both so much younger when I knew him back then.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying, he’s kind of become a tight-ass, but when he told me you were coming…let’s just say, he’s stopped being such an asshole.”

  I tilt my head, not sure what point Cohen is trying to make.

  He adds, “This weekend is the first time I’ve seen him relax in a long time, maybe even since high school. He’s been acting…different.”

>   Four

  Three and a half hours later, the game is over. Brent’s team won and is progressing to the next round on Thursday. For my first professional soccer game, I found it beyond riveting. I’ve only been to one other professional game in my life, and it was a Chicago football game a few years ago. It wasn’t nearly as fun as this. Then again, I didn’t have the enjoyment of watching Brent play on the field and assist with the team’s only goal, which happened to be the winning point for the match.

  Cohen and I wait in our seats while the majority of the fans exit the stadium. He says there’s no reason to rush since we’ll be meeting Brent, and it could take him some time to wrap up. After most of the seats have cleared, we decide to head out.

  Cohen leads the way up the steps and into the hall.

  “Wait!” I half-shout as we come to one of the vendors near the exit.

  Cohen stops and joins me, assessing the team merchandise. “You don’t need to buy any of this. Brent has a ton of this stuff at his place. I’m sure he’d just give you one.”

  “Maybe.”

  My hand goes to a cardboard box sitting at the edge of the counter. On the outside of the container in large print is the team name and Cromwell. Inside, behind the clear plastic, lies a figurine with Brent’s face…on a bobblehead.

  “But does he have one of these?” I lift the object closer to his brother’s face.

  Cohen cracks up. “Nope. That he does not. They must have just gotten those for the play-offs.”

  “I’m so getting this.”

  I pay the man for the mini-Brent toy, and Cohen and I continue walking through the halls to the place where we’re supposed to meet his brother. People are gathered around the locker room door, waiting for the team to exit. A group of women, heavily dressed in tight-fitting team attire, are obviously here as more than fans. Some of the players trickle out, greeting fans, family, and friends.

  “Hey, Cohen,” a blonde waves in our direction as she passes by to meet her friends.

  Cohen waves back, but he doesn’t say a word.

  “Do you know her?” I ask. Yes, I’m wondering if Brent and her…

  “Nope, not at all.”

  “She knew your name though.”

  “They all do.” He shuffles the hair on his head. “Groupies. Internet.”