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

by Renee Ericson

  “Maybe in a little bit,” Shauna says. She shares a quiet word with Cody.

  “Hey, Ruby?” Cody calls.

  “Yeah?” I circle around, retaking my seat.

  “What were you talking about? Before with Brent?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just something that happened while he was in Sweden, and he failed to tell me—that is, until his mother outed him.”

  Cody cackles.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “You’re such a hypocrite.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hey, I got your back, always, but let’s be honest. You weren’t exactly forthcoming with Brent about what happened in Florida until I let that cat out of the bag.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that by the way.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. You can cut the guy some slack for not telling you all his little secrets at once. You aren’t exactly known for it yourself.”

  “Since when are you on Brent’s side?”

  “I’m on no one’s side. I’m just calling it like it is, and maybe you need to look in the mirror about that one. Besides, what kind of trouble could a goodie-goodie like Brent get into? The guy seriously is so freaking straight. Did he lose his cell phone case? Butt dial someone past his bedtime? Forget to pay to get his shoes shined one week?”

  “Cody!” Shauna scolds, slapping his bicep. “Stop it. That’s just moronic.”

  He rubs his arm at the point of impact. “Really, what was his big secret? Don’t keep me guessing. I could have a field day with this one.” He’s in a good mood, taking fun jabs at Brent. “Does this have anything to do with getting his hair gel stuck on his cleats? He should know not to comb his hair with his shoes, right?”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I mock.

  “Tell me. I need to know before I start on bubble gum and beer pong.”

  We stare at each other, him waiting for me to budge.

  He lifts his brows. “Forget to wax his car?”

  “Are you done yet?”

  “No, but I’ll shut up if you tell us.”

  “I guess I can tell you. It’s not a secret,” I say, focusing on my lap. “If you dig deep enough, you can find the details about it online. There’s not much because he was just starting out, but it’s there. I just didn’t search hard enough before.”

  “What is it?” Shauna gently asks, scooting to the edge of the sofa. “Is it something really bad?”

  “No, I guess not, but I still can’t believe he did it.”

  Shauna and Cody wait, patient and attentive.

  “There was a girl…I guess many actually based on what I found. Brent created quite a reputation for himself over there.”

  “What kind of reputation?” Cody questions.

  “The kind where people know you like to hang out in women’s beds.”

  “So, he slept with a few chicks?” he asks.

  “I get the feeling that it was a little more than a few.”

  “Oh, Ruby,” Shauna consoles. “That must be hard to hear about.” She places her palm on Cody’s knee. “But we all have a past, and we all make bad choices.”

  “It’s just…” I sigh. “It’s not just that though.”

  “What is it?” Shauna pushes.

  “Is he still dating one?” Cody asks, accusatory.

  “No, nothing like that. I think I’m the first person he’s been with in a long time, maybe even since he came back to the States.”

  “Why would you say that?” Shauna ponders.

  “Because of what happened.” I glare at Cody. “I have a feeling you aren’t going to like him much at all once I tell you.”

  “He knocked someone up, didn’t he?”

  “No, but it seemed that way.” My forefinger drifts back and forth along the Latin phrase engraved on my bracelet. “And Brent didn’t deny it.”

  Like reciting a script, I continue on and share everything about Brent, Christina, the baby that ended up not being his, and his part in their lives. Every word comes off my lips, releasing my jealousy and longing that has been bubbling inside and waiting to burst.

  When I’m finished telling them all I know, I tuck my feet under my legs and wait for Cody’s reaction.

  “I don’t understand the problem,” Cody states, sitting back against the cushion.

  “What?” I ask, surprised. “That’s all you have to say? No Brent’s an idiot, or how could he?”

  “Well, fucking around with a shitload of girls isn’t exactly the most admirable thing a guy can do, but”—he snickers—“he’s not the first one to do it.”

  Shauna elbows him. “Not helping.”

  “Ow. Hey, it’s the truth though.”

  “But what about Christina?” I muse, still astonished by his lack of anger. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird he would blindly take care of them like that?”

  “Actually”—Cody focuses on Scarlet—“I think I like him better because he did do that. I might have underestimated him.”

  “What?”

  His expression softens. There’s content devotion in his eyes, like Scarlet claims him and his decisions. The small sleeping being, innocent and pure, holds so much power over the beast that is my cousin.

  “It takes a lot to take care of a family,” he continues. “Most guys would run away from something like that, but Brent didn’t. I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “What Cody’s trying to say,” Shauna interrupts, taking his hand in hers, “is that instead of focusing on the fact that it wasn’t you, maybe you should see how much of a man Brent really is.”

  “He is a good man,” I reply. “I’ve always known that.”

  “Then, that’s all that matters.”

  She’s right. It really is.

  Thirty-Seven

  Tidying up my section in the restaurant, I get ready to check out for the evening. It’s been a long, busy Saturday night full of overly demanding patrons. It must be the weather. It’s been dismally cold over the past few days.

  Now, we’re closed, and I’m ready to go home, but I’m not sure why. There’s no urgency to be home or to leave here. It’s more just a feeling that I need to take the next step. Every day has a checklist of events, and I’m marking them off, hoping to escalate to the next day. No day is different from the last. They all run together without much purpose.

  Venturing to a bussing station on the side of the restaurant dining room, I once again review the text between Brent and me from this afternoon. We spoke this morning, but as his training camp is getting more intense, our moments to actually talk have been dwindling. We seem to be texting more than anything. Our relationship has been minimized to words on a screen, and the human part of us is getting harder to find with each passing day.

  Tonight is his team’s first friendly game, a scrimmage against Portland, in L.A. I can’t even watch him play since it’s not being televised here, making him feel even farther away. So, I rely on the only communication we have—digital letters on a phone. It’s all I have of him.

  Brent: I’ll be in Mexico City on Tuesday, and then we play away next weekend. Maybe you can come out after that?

  Me: I think that will work.

  Brent: Call me tomorrow, and let me know.

  Me: Will do. Good luck tonight.

  Brent: Thanks. Love you, and miss you.

  Me: I love you, too.

  We’re in different cities, separated by thousands of miles. A couple living apart never grows because they live in a realm of postponement, stuck in that last interaction.

  My life can currently be separated into two categories—one, the space in time where my heart flutters out of contentment and love, and two, those moments devoid of the one person who can make everything feel right with his presence.

  The hours pass by vacantly without him, yet time stands still because only the time with him is worth counting.

  After seeing Cody and Shauna, I reali
zed how ridiculous I was being. My love for Brent was never a question, but the nudge toward acceptance and even more so understanding how wonderful Brent is became apparent. He truly is a man of strength and character. But with him leaving on a sour note, even with phone conversations, we aren’t in a solid place like we once were. So, I wait until we’re able to see one another once again, and I hope that the sight of his face, the feel of his hand, and the taste of his lips on mine will allow any lingering tension to dissipate.

  I shove away my phone and touch base with the closing server, so he can review my section. Once he gives the approval for me to go, I tuck my hands into my apron pockets and tread slowly toward the kitchen. There’s no rush to be anywhere. There’s no rush to do anything.

  “Hey, Ruby,” Carl calls as I pass the lounge entrance. He waves me over to the nearly empty bar. “Look at what’s on.”

  Curious, I step in to see what all the fuss is about and sidle up against the granite.

  “They’re showing clips from tonight’s friendly,” he says, tilting his head toward the flat screen.

  On the television on the wall above the glass shelving filled with bottles of spirits, fast segments of soccer players running along the field and making plays are being shown in succession.

  “I didn’t think it was being televised here,” I say, leaning over the partition.

  “It wasn’t, but they’re showing highlights now.”

  Together, Carl and I silently watch the clips from the evening’s soccer scrimmages, one after the next, touching on plays and final scores. The final match is Brent’s team.

  The station highlights several plays with him at the forefront and commentary including catch phrases like, “player to keep an eye on,” “high scorer,” and “league commodity.”

  The sight of his body in motion is nothing short of spectacular. He emulates speed, grace, and lightning fast reflexes. It’s easy to see, even for someone like me who hasn’t followed the sport in years, that Brent dominates on the field.

  “He’s really fast,” Carl comments, entranced.

  “It looks that way.”

  The program cuts away to dual newscaster commentary where they state that Brent’s team will likely be the leader for the season based on the first round of friendlies, but there’s still time for improvement for other teams before the season starts.

  “And John is in L.A. right now, talking with some of the team,” the blond newscaster states. “John?”

  The image cuts to a dark-haired man, who I assume is John. He is surrounded by three players, one being Brent.

  “So, this evening’s match was a tight one,” John, the interviewer, says, “but you managed to pull ahead. Any anticipation or strategies for the upcoming season?”

  He points the microphone to Brent. “This year”—the sound of Brent’s voice echoes through the small room, hitting my ears hard—“I think we will go into it like any other year. One game at a time, we’ll assess the other team—their strengths, their weaknesses, and how they compare with our own—and just go from there. We’ll spend time on the field and work on being the best team we can this year.”

  Brent takes a half step back, moving away from the group. The telecaster asks another question, and this time, he allows one of the other players to answer.

  I hear none of it. My ears are numb. I’m mesmerized with his small, obscure movements on the screen.

  He’s so predictable and familiar to me. It’s not just his handsome appearance, which is evident to everyone. It’s all the other things—his intricacies that make him who he is. Everything about him is just as I remember.

  In a mild meditation, his fingertips slightly rub together, just as he does when playing with the ends of my hair. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, hinting at the appearance of his dimple. His face always does that when he’s trying so hard to be mad at me, like every time I would eat half of his ice cream without asking because I knew he loved to share with me. His weight switches from one leg to the next in such a subtle fashion. I doubt anyone can tell he’s doing it. I can though. It’s a contained impatience. He would do that when he had to wait for me at the door before we’d leave. He runs his fingers through his hair, a movement he would do when he was frustrated or contemplating.

  I wonder what is on his mind. Is it me? Is it the game?

  He’s one hundred percent on my mind, and he has been since the moment he walked out my door, oppressing every other thought and desire. There’s been no urgency in my life since that day. There’s not much of anything.

  I miss him.

  Missing him isn’t right.

  I need him.

  I need him to breathe.

  Thirty-Eight

  I feel like I’m slipping into a familiar place full of emptiness.

  On my bed, I vacantly stare at the furniture, the constant reminder of him. He once warmed those seats and my soul, but both are now feeling so cold.

  I’m sliding back to that recognizable place of loneliness, the one that exists beyond Brent and myself. The pit in my gut is widening, expanding, and taking over. I try to fight it, but it’s swallowing me whole, clamping around my lungs, faster than it ever has before.

  Those many years ago after we lost our child, I pushed him away, allowing myself to vanish in my remorse. It was my fault. I was unwilling to take a stand for what I needed, not that I knew what it really was back then.

  I do now.

  There’s a solution.

  Distance divides us.

  It’s late, too late. It’s almost midnight—well, one minute before.

  He told me to call and let him know tomorrow what would work for me.

  God, I’m losing my freaking mind.

  I can’t live like this. I can’t do it. I’m not going to allow myself to fall further into that pit of emptiness.

  I know what I need to do. In less than sixty seconds, I’m deciding tomorrow. I’m plunging heart first into the comfort of him and away from the cavernous cavity of nothingness.

  He’s not anticipating me to call tonight. He might be asleep.

  The time reads twelve o’clock.

  I pick up the phone and dial his number. It rings three times. I consider hanging up.

  “Ruby?” Brent asks after picking up in the middle of the fourth ring.

  “Brent,” I say, desperate.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

  “I couldn’t wait.”

  “That’s okay.” He sounds tired. “You can call me anytime.”

  “I saw you tonight.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, in an interview.” I start crying. “I can’t do it. I can’t wait. I can’t watch you.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks urgently, his volume increasing.

  “I can’t, Brent. I can’t. I’m so sorry. I should have gone with you. I should have—”

  “Ruby, calm down. What’s going on?”

  “I. Just. Miss. You.”

  “I miss you, too.” Relief echoes through the connection.

  “It’s not just that.” I brush away the damp strands stuck to my cheeks and caught in my mouth. “You say love is patient, and maybe it is. Maybe love can wait forever. But I’m not love. I’m just a girl in love with you. My love might wait, but I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t sit here and wait for my life to begin with you.”

  “Ruby, it’s just a few months.” He’s so calm. “Summer will be here before you know it. You can come out and be with me then. You can stay for as long as you want.”

  “Forever?” I quickly ask.

  “If you want. I would love that, but if you have grad school, we can work around that, too. I told you.”

  I don’t understand. He’s pushing back.

  “How can you…”

  “How can I what?” he asks.

  “How can you just wait? How are you not going crazy like me?”

  “Are you doubting how much I love yo
u and want to be with you?” Sheets rustle in the background. He’s moving.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know it’s hard to be apart. It’s killing me, too. I don’t want to take away your choices though. I want you to have everything. I’m willing to wait, so you don’t miss out on anything, so you get it all. I’ve taken enough away from you already.”

  “But what I need is you.” My breath jaggedly passes between my teeth. “I’m thinking about quitting school.”

  “You can’t do that.” A patient resolve oppresses his tone. “You’re almost done.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t taking away my choices?” I snap, angered that he’s challenging my desire to be with him right now.

  “I’m not.”

  “But you are. You’re taking away you. You’re the only choice that matters.”

  “Ruby…I promised your dad.”

  “What do you mean, you promised him?” My heart splits in half and then half again. “What did you promise? That you and I would remain apart?”

  “No,” he barks. “I would never promise that to anyone—ever. I did give him my word that I wouldn’t take away your dreams and everything you deserve—ever.”

  “Well then, you lied.” The sobs start coming so hard, inhibiting my ability to speak. “You just took away the only thing I want, the only thing I need.” I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand.

  “Ruby,” he says, defeated, “I wish—”

  “It’s okay. I wish, too, but it’s not…it’s not going to…” The tears keep flowing. “I can’t. I have to go.”

  “Don’t go like this. Please. You—”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “No. Don’t, Ruby!”

  “I can’t talk anymore right now.”

  “Ru—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I end the call and lie back on my bed, bawling heavily for an extended period of time. I ignore Brent’s ringtone, beckoning a reaction, a response.