Deciding Tomorrow (22 page)

“We’re playing in the snow.”

He takes a handful of the white stuff and tosses it into the air. A thick dusting of it hits our faces all at once. I shriek at the wetness.

“I haven’t done this in years.” He tosses more snow into the air, like a giddy child seeing a flurry for the first time in his life.

“Really?” I lift my head, so we’re face-to-face. “Even while you were in Europe? Surely, it snowed there.”

“It did, but it wasn’t very fun. You weren’t there.”

“No.” My cool nose touches his warm cheek. “I wasn’t.”

“I wish you were though.” He shifts my body, so it’s lying directly on top of his, and then he sweeps the hair away from my face, tucking it back into the hem of my knit hat. “It would have been nice. We could have had so much fun.”

“We can have fun now.”

“True.” His lips flutter along the corner of my mouth. “I should have asked you to come with me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

“Because we didn’t know what we were doing back then.”

“We were kind of clueless. Just a couple of kids.”

“A couple of naive, crazy kids in love.”

“We were in crazy love.” He lowers his voice. “I’m still insanely in love with you, more so than ever before.”

“You are insane to love me.” Maneuvering my arms, I wrap them around him, tucking my hands under his body. “And now you’re in a Ruby straightjacket, trapped and at my mercy.”

He nips at my jaw. “I’m not complaining one bit. Do with me what you will. I’m at your bidding.” He lifts a brow, smirking. “This is like some kind of fantasy.”

I snicker. “Leave it to you to make this about sex.”

“Who said anything about sex? I was just referring to being wrapped up in your arms.”

“Smooth, Cromwell.” I touch my lips to his, our breaths hot juxtaposed to the cold air. “Thank you again for today. I really appreciate you going with me.”

“Anytime. We can do it again next year, too, if you want.”

My heart leaps. He’s hinting at a future involving us and already thinking about next Christmas with me before this one has even ended. He’s really in it with me.

Who am I kidding? I’m all in with him.

“I’d like that,” I say, my lips moving against his. “I think I’d like that a lot.”

“Me, too.”

We continue to kiss, creating heat between the cold ground below and the falling snow above. Tiny icy particles of Mother Nature’s beauty rain over our heads. Brent threads his fingers into my hair at the base of my head, and I open my mouth, my tongue finding his. My hands inch their way up his back and to his neck before cradling his head and face. I press my body into his, breathing heavier, as Brent grinds his pelvis into mine. His hands find my ass, pulling me harder over him. We’re dry-humping like teenagers.

“Hey, you two!” a voice shouts from near the street.

My whole body stills.

“Get a room!”

Brent laughs, bright and playful. A giggle sputters out of my mouth. We’ve been caught and guilty of public pelvic grinding on Christmas of all days. I roll off of Brent, my back hitting the cold, hard ground. He rises, pulling me up with him, and brushes the snow from his legs and my backside.

“So, that was…fun,” he says, playfully spanking my ass as he finishes dusting me off.

I lightheartedly yip a little from the contact.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’m getting cold anyhow.”

We journey back toward my building and enter my apartment a few minutes later. Like second nature, we take turns hanging our coats, taking off our shoes, and settling into my home. Having Brent here is so natural and part of my everyday routine now. I can’t imagine him anywhere else. It’s like we’re living together.

“You hungry?” he asks, opening the fridge. “We didn’t really plan for dinner. I should have thought of that.”

“We can get Chinese in a bit.” I sit on the new small sofa. “A place down the street is always open on Christmas.”

He closes the refrigerator door and then sits across from me in the leather chair. It’s only been here for a day, but Brent appears to be one with it already, like he’s been sitting in it for years. Furthermore, the chair belongs here, will stay here, and lives here—thereby, in some ways, I guess Brent does as well.

“Do you eat there every Christmas?” he asks, sitting back, resting his hands behind his head.

Getting comfortable, I tuck my feet up on the cushion. “For the last few years, yes.”

“So, it’s kind of a tradition?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Good to know. I don’t want to mess with your traditions.”

“Well, I think Chinese food can easily be changed. I’m open.” I twirl a piece of hair around my finger. “What about you? Do you usually do anything special for the holiday?”

“No.” He smirks. “Last year, my brother and I spent it with my mother. We ate some elaborate meal at a restaurant and then watched a movie. It was pretty lame.”

“What about the years before that?”

He scratches the back of his head. “Nothing special at all. I was overseas.”

“You didn’t want to spend the holidays with your family?” I push.

“Things weren’t exactly smooth with them while I was over there.” He tongues the inside of his cheek. “We didn’t talk much in general.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He inhales. “Lots of reasons. I’m sure most of them had to do with me being a total asshole.” He shakes his head. “I really was a dick.”

“I find that hard to believe.” My mind recalls everything that we’ve been through and how hard it all was on him as well. “Plus, I’m sure you had your reasons. It was a tough time, Brent.”

“Yeah, it was. But that’s in the past, right?”

“Right, it is.”

A sense of contentment takes over the room, his face, and every part of my body. This is now, this is love, and this is the difference. We’re together, beyond the wreckage.

Reaching to the side and under his seat, Brent pulls out a small box wrapped in green paper. Rising, he joins me on the love seat, holding out the package. “Merry Christmas,” he says, taking my hand and placing the gift in it.

“Brent…” I sit up, angling in his direction. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“We agreed, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And I didn’t spend more than twenty dollars, just like you asked.” He palms my knee. “So, go on, and open it.”

My fingers slip under the edges of the stiff paper, releasing the tape. Unwrapping the gift, I open the small white box and find a copper bangle tucked neatly in a bed of cotton. Freeing it from the cardboard square, I lift it to get a better view of the lettering engraved along the entire length of the burnt orange metal. The phrasing is easily recognizable as Latin, but I can’t decipher the entire script, only pieces and parts.

“What does it say?” I ask, my finger memorizing the indentations.

“
Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori
is from a poem written a long time ago by a man called Virgil. The loose translation means, love conquers all things, so we too shall yield to love.” Holding my hand, he places the bangle around my wrist. “I hope you like it.”

“I do. Very much.” I kiss him. “I love it,” I sigh, resting my arms over his shoulders, our foreheads touching. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It wasn’t easy finding something at that price, you know.”

“I do.” I press my chest to his with my chin over his shoulder. “But thank you. The thought counts, not the money. It’s more than perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it.” His strong arms embrace around my lower back. “I mean it…the saying. It’s you and me. We can conquer anything.”

My lips touch his cheek. “I think you’re right.”

I rise from the sofa and enter the dressing area. From the back of the closet, nestled away and out of sight, I withdraw Brent’s gift wrapped in red-and-white paper and join him once again on the cushioned two-seater.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, setting the small rectangular package on his lap.

“Thank you.”

Our eyes meet, my heart leaps, and our souls connect, acknowledging the shared moment. Christmas is usually a time of loneliness but not today. For the first time in years, I’m not alone in any sense of the word, and I have a feeling the same is true for him. We needed this day with each other, maybe more than either of us realized.

Brent removes the decorative paper from the box, and it falls to the floor. He opens the cardboard and pulls out the four-by-six-inch frame inside, displaying my gift. It’s a pencil sketch replicated from a photo taken of the two of us. Brent’s lips are on my cheek, and I’m in mid-laughter.

“Ruby,” he breathes. “How did you—”

“It’s from that day we went to the museum, remember?” I sidle up next to him. “Just a few weeks ago.”

“But how did you have this done? There’s no way you spent twenty dollars on this.”

I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “I actually spent twenty dollars on the frame. The sketch was bought on trade.”

“What did you trade?”

“A girl at work is an art student. I took her Christmas Eve shift last night in exchange for the drawing. So, actually, I ended up making money on the deal.”

“You are crafty,” he says humorously. “She did an amazing job.” He traces the outline of our faces sitting behind the glass. “It looks just like you.”

“And you,” I add, wrapping my arm behind his back. “I think she captured it perfectly. The original is on my phone.” I start to get up. “Let me show it to you.”

Brent grabs my arm, pulling me back down to his side. “No need.” He sets the frame aside and palms the side of my face. “I have the original right here, and there’s no comparison.”

TWENTY-FIVE

New Year’s came and went without a hitch. Brent and I spent a quiet evening at my apartment, away from the crowds, with pizza and a movie. Then, we enjoyed a bottle of champagne while watching the ball drop. The low-key night was the best time I’ve ever had celebrating a fresh year full of possibilities. I’m sure it had everything to do with the company.

School has resumed, and I’m back to my regular work schedule at the restaurant, serving steaks and other hearty entrees to hungry patrons. I was tempted to give away some of my shifts since Brent’s time here is now more limited, but we lost a few employees after the holidays, and the establishment is low on staff.

It’s a regular Friday night at work, not excessively busy, but January is generally a slow month, and I’ve had a steady flow of easygoing patrons. After serving a table their food, I check on my other customers and then head back into the kitchen where everything is running fluidly. On the white board, my name is crossed off along with three others, indicating that we’ve been cut for the night. It’s near closing time, and I opened the dinner service, so I’m happy to see a red line through my name.

“Table eleven in the window,” Luke, a new cook, calls out. “Coming up on table three.”

Without any hesitation, I place a tray on the stand and move over the plates.

“I need a rush on this order,” Eric, one of the recently added servers, says to Jared, the other chef behind the pass. Eric slides a written ticket across the shelf. “The first one was overdone.”

Jared grabs the slip of paper. “No problem.”

With the tray loaded, I lift it to my shoulder and pivot on my heel, ready to head into the dining room.

“Hey, Luke,” Eric continues as I walk past him, “you’re a big soccer fan, right?”

My ears perk, and my feet slow.

“Eh, a little. My family has season tickets for the Fire. I go with them sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“There’s a guy at the bar, plays for L.A., and Carl says he’s pretty big stuff. Brent Cromwell?”

Completely eavesdropping, I turn back around to hear the rest of their conversation.

“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.