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

by Renee Ericson

  “No shit.” Luke stops everything he’s doing and turns to face Eric. “That guy’s awesome. Had one hell of a season last year.”

  Brent has been here for close to two months, but this is the first time he’s come into where I work since we got back together. We talked about it a little before, and we agreed that him lingering around, waiting for me, wasn’t a good idea since management frowns upon it. He is leaving in a little over a week, so maybe he felt like disregarding that original thought because he’s here now.

  “That’s what Carl said,” Eric continues. “He wants to ask him for his autograph, but he hasn’t had the balls to do it yet. He’s afraid he might get fired.”

  “Chickenshit,” Luke says, flipping over a steak on the grill. “How hard can it be to covertly ask a guy for a signature?”

  “I’ll do it,” I pipe in, adjusting the tray on my shoulder.

  They both whip their heads in my direction, confused.

  “You’ll do what?” Eric asks.

  “Ask the soccer player for his autograph,” I reply, “I’ll even get one for you two if you want.”

  “Oh, good idea,” Eric says. “Chicks can get away with anything. You should get your picture with him, too.”

  “Sure. Why not?” I shrug, unfazed. “Because girls love pictures with athletes. It’s all we ever think about.”

  “Whatever,” Luke chimes in. “Chicks think this guy’s hot, too. You’ll see. You’ll probably drool over him like the rest of them. My mom even has a crush on him.”

  “She does?” I can’t blame her.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Makes my pop jealous.”

  “Do you want me to get an autograph for her, too?”

  “Hey, if you think you can get the guy to sign a bunch of stuff while he’s trying to just chill at a bar, knock your socks off.”

  “I’m sure I can persuade him.” I turn around and exit the kitchen. “Be right back.”

  “Make sure to have him make it to Claire!” Luke shouts after me, followed by a laugh.

  Crossing the threshold into the dining room, I shake my head over all the fuss about Brent. It’s not lost on me that he’s somewhat of a celebrity to some people, but he’s just a person. Of course, he’s more than just a person to me, but having known him since high school changes my perspective. Plus, I’ve seen him naked—a lot—like just this morning. Okay, maybe he’s awesome, but it has nothing to do with his athletic career.

  Weaving through the restaurant, I peek into the bar area and find Brent perched on a stool at the counter. I continue into the next room to serve the table their meals, and then I check on my own customers before entering the bar. It’s about at half capacity. Four of the booths are occupied, and six people, including Brent, are sitting at stools abutting the counter.

  Stopping at the end of the service area, I gaze at the man who has become a huge part of my life in a short period of time. He swept in out of the blue and somehow managed to land into a place that feels more permanent with each passing day. In some ways, he’s always been a part of me.

  “Hey, girlie,” Pat, the head bartender, says with a heavy Irish accent as he comes to stand next to me. He slings a towel over his shoulder. “You need something?”

  “Nah.” I spear a maraschino in the tray with a plastic sword. “Just stopped over to see someone.”

  Slowly, Pat circles around to where Brent and Carl are talking at the end of the bar. “That’s the guy who was here a few months ago, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” I stick the cherry in my mouth. “You remembered.”

  “The footie guy, right?”

  “Yeah, the footie guy. His name’s Brent.”

  “You know”—he leans his hip against the register—“Carl’s been over there chatting the poor guy’s ear off since he got here. I think Carl has a crush on him.”

  “Is that right?” I snort.

  “It is. I think he’ll be a little upset to learn that he has some competition.”

  “Aw, poor Carl.” I stick out my lower lip.

  At the middle of the bar, Carl fills a glass with beer from the tap and places it in front of Brent. He then rests his elbows on the solid counter dividing the two of them, chatting away.

  “Why don’t you go and put the poor guy out of his misery?” Pat teases. “Your friend has been more than cordial for long enough.”

  “I think I will.”

  Following the length of the bar, I approach Brent who is making idle talk with Carl. My eye catches Eric standing near the room’s entrance, observing my every move.

  Time to make good on my promise about those autographs.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I say to Brent like we’re strangers, interrupting Carl and Brent’s conversation.

  “Yes?” Brent replies, mischief playing at the corner of his mouth.

  “I was wondering…” I peek at Carl who steps away to help another customer. “Could I get your autograph?”

  “Oh, why, of course,” he sarcastically says, grabbing a napkin from the counter’s edge. “Can I borrow a pen?”

  I hand him one from my apron.

  “Who should I make it out to?”

  “My one true love,” I reply without missing a beat, knowing that Eric is watching me closely. “And if you could also write your phone and social security numbers, I would appreciate that as well.”

  “Sure.” Brent scribbles on the flimsy paper napkin.

  “Your shoe size, too.”

  Brent quirks his head. “What do you need that for?”

  “Just curious.” I lean in closer. “You know what they say about a guy and the size of his feet.”

  “That they wear big shoes?”

  “That they make women happy.”

  He tongues the inside of his cheek. “Well, women are definitely happy with my shoe size.”

  “I like to hear that.”

  He writes a few more words and then presents me with the autograph.

  “Thank you,” I say, our thumbs grazing.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I look at what Brent wrote. I snort, hard. Covering my mouth to stifle my cackling voice, I bend at the waist in a mild fit of hysterics. On the white square, there’s no autograph to be found. However, a nice stick-figure drawing of a couple having sex, doggie-style, is scrawled in full detail on the small napkin.

  “I think…” I sputter through a snort and cackle, handing the napkin back to him. “You forgot to put your phone number.”

  Grabbing my hand, Brent pulls me between his legs and rests his palm on my ass. I think it’s involuntary because he moves it to my waist before I have a second to voice an objection to his inappropriate touching in my place of work.

  “How about you just come home with me tonight?” Brent asks. “Then, you won’t need to call me.”

  “My, my, aren’t we forward? But I think that can be arranged.”

  “What time do you get off?”

  “I was just cut, and my tables are finishing up now, so pretty soon.”

  “Good, because my night has been a little boring, and I was hoping to have some fun.”

  “I can be your funhouse.”

  “Did you just say that you can be my funhouse?”

  “I might have.” I peek in Eric’s direction. Patting a hand on Brent’s shoulder and taking a step back, I continue, “I want you to meet someone, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.”

  “Eric?” I wave him over.

  He holds his ground until I become more animated with my gestures, and then he joins us.

  “Brent, this is Eric. Eric, Brent.”

  “Hi,” Eric says with obvious discomfort.

  “Do you think you can give him an autograph?” I ask Brent.

  “Sure, no problem.” He shoves the stick-figure image into his pocket and grabs another napkin, signing away. “So, you been busy tonight?” he continues, making casual conversation.

  “He’s talking to you,” I address
Eric as he stares intently at Brent’s scrawling hand.

  “Oh.” He straightens. “No, not really.”

  “That’s good. Nothing like an easy night.” Brent hands the napkin over to Eric.

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem. Any friend of Ruby’s.”

  Eric smirks, lips tight. He’s clearly confused.

  “Brent’s my boyfriend, Eric,” I say, letting him in on the truth. “We’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “Since high school,” Brent adds, entwining his hand with mine.

  “Huh.” Eric rests his hands in his apron pockets. “Interesting. Well, thanks for the autograph.”

  “You bet.”

  Dumbfounded, Eric goes back toward the bar entrance, leaving me alone with Brent again.

  “What was that all about?” Brent asks me.

  “They were talking about you in the kitchen, Mr. Big Soccer Star. I told them I would come out and get your autograph for them.”

  “But you didn’t tell them you knew me?”

  “Nope. Thought it would be more fun this way, but I’m pretty sure they know now.”

  “Yeah, I guess that cat’s out of the bag. Were you keeping us a secret?”

  “Nah,” I say, stepping in closer. “He’s just new, and I don’t like to talk about personal stuff at work.”

  “Hey, Ruby,” Carl interrupts. “You harassing the customers again?”

  “No,” Brent responds and rests his hand at my lower back. “She’s not bothering me at all, not in any way I don’t like.”

  “Is that right?” I ask, brows lifted.

  “It sure is.” His hand drifts south, cupping my ass.

  “Well then…” I flirt a bit, bumping his knee with my palm. “I need to get back to work and take care of my last customers. Are you going to stick around?”

  “Yeah, if it’s okay. I’ll just wait for you here.”

  “I’m okay with that.” I turn my attention to Carl. “Be nice to my boyfriend.”

  Carl shifts his eyes back and forth between Brent and me. “I didn’t know you two were dating.”

  “Well, now, you do,” Brent replies. Then, he kisses me brazenly on the cheek to emphasize the point. “Go on. I’ll be here.”

  “Okay. It’ll only be another half hour or so.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Leaving his side, I enter the dining room to check on my tables again. I clear the plates for one and then get the check for another while my third and last setting goes over the dessert menu. Since everything appears to be set for the moment, I carry myself into the kitchen to assist with the rest of the service. At the fountain machine, I fill a glass with water and take a drink.

  “Table twenty in the window,” Luke calls into the open room.

  There’s no one around, so I empty my glass and start to set up at the window.

  “So?” Luke questions, adding another plate to the window.

  “So, what?” I ask in return, filling the tray with the entrees.

  “Where are those autographs?”

  “Oh.” I smack my forehead. “I completely forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll get them for you later and bring them in tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure you will,” he says, teasing. “I knew you’d chicken out.”

  “Chicken out?” I rise, balancing the tray on my shoulder. “I didn’t chicken out. I just forgot. I’ll ask him to do it tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” Luke says, confused. “Did you talk to him, and he asked you out?”

  “I talked to him, but—”

  “I guess he really is a ladies’ man.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’re dating,” Eric pipes in from behind me. “Apparently, Ruby here is his girlfriend.”

  “No shit?” Luke says, genuinely surprised. “You’re dating Brent Cromwell?”

  “Uh…” I shrug. “Yes.”

  Twenty-Six

  Clocked out and ready to leave for the night, I scurry downstairs to the employee break room to grab my coat. It’s not too late by Chicago standards, and Brent and I plan to go out for a little bit because we’ve been spending a lot of time and evenings at my place since the New Year. He will be returning to L.A. shortly, and I want to spend as much time with him as possible. His departure is approaching, but neither one of us has brought it up. We will have to soon if we’re going to make anything work beyond this visit.

  Carrying myself up the steps with my bag slung over my shoulder, I pause near the top when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I grab it from the wool interior, revealing a text from Mara. I haven’t heard from her in weeks, nor have I called her in some time. Since Brent’s arrival and the holidays, my mind has been preoccupied, and so has my time.

  Mara: Been missing you. If you aren’t working, Kenzie and I are out, playing pool. Come join us.

  Me: I’m just getting off work now, but I have plans.

  Mara: Eating ice cream and watching a movie are not plans. Come join us.

  Me: Brent is still in town.

  She knew he was here. Mara and I did touch base briefly right before Christmas, but my relationship status wasn’t a huge topic of conversation. It was more just well wishes for the season.

  A minute passes as I wait patiently for her reply. Finally, a new message arrives.

  Mara: Tell the sperminator to come, too.

  Me: Are you going to call him that all night?

  Mara: Why? Does he not make sperm anymore?

  Me: No comment.

  Mara: No, I will not call him that all night. I promise. Just come meet us. I’ll be good.

  Me: Let me go talk to him and get back to you.

  Mara: Okay.

  Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I hurry through the kitchen and into the bar where Pat and Carl have already begun to clean up for the night. A few patrons are still seated at the bar, Brent being one of them.

  Squeezing between two stools, I lean against the granite counter and rub Brent’s back.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Yep, all done.” I notice the empty glass in front of him. “Do you have a tab you need to settle?”

  “Nope. Already did it.” He slides off the stool, grabs his jacket, and slips his arms through the sleeves in preparation for the cool January air. “See ya, Carl. Thanks again.”

  “Later,” Carl replies. “You two have a good night.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I lead Brent to the front of the restaurant to exit.

  “So, what do you want to do?” Brent asks when we reach the doors. He fastens the top button to his warm leather coat.

  “I was thinking we could just go for a drink.”

  I place my hand on the handle, and Brent hastens his movement to open the door first. We stop in the small alcove.

  “But I got a text from Mara when I was getting ready downstairs.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “And?”

  I pull my hat over my ears. “She invited us to join her and Kenzie to play pool.”

  “When?”

  “Right now,” I say, opening the door to the windy evening. “Tonight.”

  “So, are we going?”

  “Do you want to?”

  He gauges my expression and then pulls me to the edge of the sidewalk, hailing a cab from half a block down the street. Brent opens the door, and we slide into the warm interior of the yellow vehicle.

  “Where to?” the cab driver asks.

  “You know where we’re going, not me,” Brent says to me, hand on my thigh.

  “Mara?”

  “Why not?”

  “All right.”

  I communicate the name and cross streets of our destination to the driver. The place happens to be close to my apartment. The Friday evening traffic makes for a slow journey north. However, Chicago is a beautiful city to drive through at night, lit brightly from the signage at restaurants, bars, and other venues lining the streets. I text Mara on our way,
letting her know that we’re coming, and then I lean my form into Brent’s. He wraps his arm around me for the rest of the trip. The cab stops a few doors down from our destination due to the line of cars. We pay the driver, exit onto the sidewalk, and continue toward the bustling pool hall.

  Swinging open the door, I lead us through the crowd of people congregating around the pool tables and the bar. Music plays in the background under the muffled chatter of voices. In the back corner of the main room, I spot Mara’s dark curls springing to life when she takes a shot while her girlfriend, Kenzie, stands to the side, tucking a strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. Brent and I squeeze through a group to join them.

  “Hey, Kenzie,” I say in greeting as Mara rounds the table to take another shot. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hey there! You, too.” She shifts her pool cue to offer her hand to Brent. “You must be…Brent? Is that right?”

  “It is.” He shakes her hand once and then helps me out of my jacket. “And you must be Kenzie?”

  “The one and only.”

  Mara misses her shot.

  “Looks like I’m up,” Kenzie adds.

  Setting her stick against the wall, Mara picks up her beer, takes a drink, and then joins Brent and me by the high table where we’re hanging our coats.

  “Hi, Mar.” I hug her, my closest friend. “Good to see you again.”

  “You, too, Rubes.” She pats my back, steps out of my embrace, and then faces Brent. “Well…my, my, Mr. Cromwell.” Her eyes shift up and down his physique more than twice. “Time surely has been good to you. No wonder Rubes has been all over you like butter on a biscuit.”

  “Butter on a biscuit, Mar?” I raise my brows.

  “Whatever.” She turns her hands up. “Would you rather I say like a cat in heat?”

  “Uh…no. Butter on a biscuit is definitely better.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Mara,” Brent interjects. “You look good, too.”

  “Thanks, Cromwell.”