Deciding Tomorrow (7 page)

“Ruby”—he touches the ends of my hair—“I forgive you.”

I don’t reply. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his, blinking at his sincere face.

“I forgive you,” he says again, softer this time. “Is that what you need to hear?”

His words cut through me in a way I’m not able to handle. His forgiveness is not something I expected. Even more, it wasn’t something I thought I needed.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him again. The regret of so many years pulls me down with the weight of an anvil.

“But you don’t need to be.” He takes me into his chest, and his familiar form instantly alleviates the tension. “We all act crazy when things are out of our control, and we just had a lot come our way all at once.”

“That’s an understatement,” I mumble against his heart.

“Is it ever.” He lifts my chin, locking our gazes. “But I forgive you, and I hope you forgive me, too.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I feel the same way, so there’s no need to be sorry. It happened. I’m just happy to have you again.”

“You think you have me?” I kid, attempting to change the somber mood. “You don’t even know me. I might be completely different than that person you once knew.”

“I doubt that.” He smirks. “I’m sure I know you better than you think.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He raises his brows. “Test me.”

“What’s my middle name?”

“Ruby Anne Miller. You need to ask harder questions than that.”

“All right, a hard one.” I pause, letting him sweat a bit. “What was my mother’s name?”

“Sarah, and from what you tell me, she was beautiful.”

“She was—very.”

“Your favorite ice cream is mint chip,” he starts again. “Your favorite color is blue, the blue-gray color that happens just before the breaking of the white caps on the sea.” His dimples come to life. “You like to give me a hard time when no one else will. You’re trying to do it right now.”

“I am not.”

“Oh, yes, you are. And you’re stubborn as hell. By the way, that whole talk you gave me yesterday from the airport? About coming here? Making sure I knew that you wanted to be here? Well, I didn’t need it. Once you make up your mind about something, there’s no going back for you.”

“So, you were just messing with me?” I ask, mouth gaping.

“Maybe a little.”

I playfully push him away, and he snatches me at my waist.

“I also know you love it when I kiss you behind your ear.”

He plants his lips on the sensitive space in question, and my whole body becomes liquid.

“And you love it when I moonwalk.”

“Yes, that always was my favorite part about you.”

“And I also know,” he says against my cheek, “that somewhere deep inside of you, you still love me. Maybe it’s not like you once did, but I can see the way you look at me. It crosses your face every now and then.”

“Brent…”

“You don’t have to say you do, one way or another.” He presses his mouth closer to my ear. “But know I feel the same way, and I think we can figure out the rest.”

“It’s a lot to figure out.”

“It is, but I don’t care—at all. Second chances only come around once, and I’m not wasting this one with you.”

“I want to try, too.” I brush the loose strands of hair away from my face. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m not too sure.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, contemplating. “How much longer do you have with school?”

“I’m there until June…at least.”

“What are you planning to do after?”

“I’m still not sure. I’ve been thinking about grad school.”

“Are you still think about social services? You talked about that a lot when we first started school.”

“Sometimes.” A breeze sweeps across the sands, and I wrap my arms around my chest.

“You like it though?”

“School? Yeah, I love it. I love what I’m doing.”

“Good.” He puts his arm around my waist. “I want you to be happy, and I’m glad you’re in school. I remember how important it was to you.”

“What about you? Are you here in L.A. for a while?”

“At least another two years. I signed a three-year deal.”

Eight months—that’s how long until spring quarter ends
. It’s a long time to wait and to be apart. And that’s only if I graduate on schedule. Then, grad school is an option after that. It’s always been part of the plan in some way. Giving that up completely isn’t a decision I can abruptly make right now.

Then again, Brent wasn’t a part of that plan either.
Is he now?

“Do you want to make it work?” he questions.

“You and me? Us?”

“Yes. Us.” One side of his mouth turns up. “Because I do.”

“I can’t imagine not trying.” I smile, blissful.

He pulls me in close. “I’ll always come and find you,” he says just above a whisper into my hairline.

“You won’t have to look hard,” I quietly utter back. “I’m not hiding…anymore.”

EIGHT

This evening, Brent and I had dinner at a nearby restaurant overlooking the water where we dined on overpriced food and watched the sun go down.

It’s nearly nine o’clock when we enter his apartment, and my imminent departure weighs heavily in the air. Lifting one foot and then the other, I remove the black heels from my feet while Brent hangs our coats in the closet. I catch him trailing his hands over my garment before closing the door. Turning to face me, he shoves his hands into his pockets.

“I guess I should start to get ready to go,” I say, slightly melancholy.

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Five o’clock will be here soon.”

“Yeah.”

Inhaling, I force myself down the hallway and into Brent’s room with him on my heels. I pick up my bag and set it on the bed where he takes a seat. His eyes follow me as I place my shoes in the duffel and then proceed to retrieve my clothes from the closet. Folding them slowly, one by one, I try not to dwell too much on the fact that even though we seem to have come together quickly in the last day or so, we’ll soon be divided by a great distance with no plan for what’s to come next. It’s clear that we both want to be together, but being apart is our undeniable future.

Removing my last item of clothing from its hanger, I finger one of Brent’s shirts, memorizing its texture.
I’m going to miss him
.

Peeking over my shoulder, I spy Brent lost in thought while staring at his lap. Making a rash decision, I slyly yank one of his white dress shirts with thin blue stripes from its hanger. He has so many that I’m sure he won’t even notice it’s missing. I fold his article of clothing within my own, hiding it from view, and then close the closet door.

Rounding the mattress, I join Brent and start the process of packing and organizing my bag for the journey home. At the bottom of the blue duffel lies a gift for Brent that I brought from Chicago. I had considered saving it for tomorrow, but I think now would be the best time.

I extract the blue-and-silver wrapped package from my bag and place the gift into his hand.

“What’s this for?” he asks, curious.

“Just a little present. Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

He smirks, dimples dancing.

“Did you think I wouldn’t remember?” I ask, mocking astonishment.

“No, I didn’t think you would,” he says, unmoving. “Thank you.”

“Well, go on,” I encourage. “Open it.”

Brent rips off the thin navy paper as I await his reaction. The cotton garment unfolds in his outstretched hands, and a glossy picture that was wrapped inside falls to the ground without him noticing. I bend over to pick it up as he laughs next to me.

“This is perfect,” he tells me, turning the T-shirt around. It displays a graphic on the front that depicts the simple image of a hot dog with the Chicago skyline outlined behind it, referencing the hot-dog shop we went to last weekend. Just below the image reads,
Bitches Love Hot Dogs
. He lays it against his chest. “Should I wear this when I take you to the airport?”

“Sure. I love a man who wears his wiener with pride.”

“Nice.” He folds the shirt and then sets it aside. “You sure do have a way with words.”

“Or with wieners.”

Brent purses his lips, withholding laughter. “Okay then. Glad we got that sorted out.” He grabs the backs of my thighs, pulling me between his legs. “You really are…you just make me happy.”

“The feeling is pretty mutual.”

His eyes rest on my hands.

“What’s that?” he questions, referring to the picture.

“It’s part of your gift.”

Taking the photo in one hand, leaving the other at my thigh, Brent scans the image of us from long ago. We were freshmen in college, completely in love, and together in a city new to both of us and ripe for our curious minds.

That fall, during our first few months at school, Brent and I explored the sights of the city as much as possible, including Millennium Park. In the photo, Brent is holding me upside down by the knees underneath the metallic, mirrored Cloud Gate, also known as The Bean. My brunette head of hair sweeps the ground, and my middle is slightly exposed as gravity tugs at the hem of my jacket. We were so carefree, the way any young couple should be.

“I remember this day,” he says, tracing the figures on the glossy paper. “It was warm, warmer than usual, and we spent the whole day along the lake. I think we walked all day until the sun went down, maybe even longer. I remember being so tired when we finally made it back to the dorms. You ate a lot of cotton candy at Navy Pier. It was blue. I remember that part because I wanted to kiss you a lot, to help you eat it.”

“I remember that, too.”

Brent scoots up the bed, reaching back toward his bedside table, and he pulls out a stack of pictures from a small drawer. He shuffles through them as I walk around to join him. Finding the one he’s looking for, he sets the pile on top of the table and then hands an image to me.

I’ve never seen this.

“This is one of my favorites ever,” he says.

It’s a self-portrait of Brent and me with my body curled into his side on a grassy meadow. His expression carries an aura of contentment, an easiness that I don’t think I’ve ever seen despite having known him so well and for so long. This picture could have been taken anywhere, but it was definitely taken some time ago. We both look so young.

“When is this from?” My index finger floats along his face on the paper.

“That last day on our island where we grew up, right before we left for Chicago. We spent the whole day there, just you and me. Do you remember?”

“Yeah.” I hand the picture back to him. “I do. It was really overcast that day, and the leaves had just begun to fall. It was early for the season.”

His fingers play with the corner of the photo. “It was the first day you ever fell asleep in my arms.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I had to take a picture, not that I would ever forget.” Turning, he returns the image to the pile and adds the one I gave to him. Taking my hand, he tugs me close to the bed. “We have a lot of good memories.”

“We really do.” I place my hands on his broad shoulders. “Some of the best.”

“We’ll have more.”

“I hope so.”

“We will,” he says with an impish grin. “Thank you for my gift.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything. Your visit is plenty.”

“The visit is for me. The gift is for you.”

“If you say so.”

The happy mood dissipates.

Wrapping his arms around my waist, Brent pulls me flush into his form, resting his head just below my breasts. Surprised by his sudden gesture, I stiffen for a moment and then envelop his head with my hands.

“Thank you,” he says.

Releasing me from his embrace, Brent tilts his head upward. The longing is evident, dancing around his features. Words are hidden behind his lips, phrases he’s not sharing with my ears.

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” he states.

I let out a shaky breath.

He’s referring to tomorrow.

Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was anxious and excited while flying cross-country just to see him, to give us a chance, to see what is left. And now, our time is up.

This is supposed to feel like a beginning, but an ending is lurking, taunting, as time shrinks around what we are. It’s taking us away from what we’re trying to be.

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.

He tugs me onto his lap. “I want to beg you to stay.”

“Do it,” I plea, wrapping my arms around his neck. The thought of remaining with him, not leaving in the morning and dropping everything for us, paces through my mind. “Ask me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s not time,” he utters into my hair. “I want you to stay, to have you here, to keep you with me.” He takes my face into the palms of his hands, forcing me to look at him.

The raw emotions swimming through his eyes spark a tear to erupt from my own, and it runs down my cheek.

“This is the only place I want to be, with you, but you need to go back.”

I search his face, trying to understand what he’s telling me. The rejection hits my heart severely, opening a familiar wound.

“You have an unfinished life there,” he continues. “And I’m not taking that away from you.” He glances at my middle. “Again.” His thumb wipes away the salty rogue. “I will come see you, I promise. We will make this work. God help me, I will make this work, but I don’t want any regrets. I don’t want you to give up what you’re doing.”

I rein in my emotions and think with my mind. He’s right. We’re on separate paths, but this is not impossible.

“I understand.” I slowly exhale. “I don’t want any regrets either. I don’t like it though.”

“Neither do I, but this is the way.”

“I know. I know you’re right.”

Brent kisses the place on my cheek where the tear fell, wiping away its existence. The soft caress of his mouth is an apology. Searching my face with sadness cloaked in bravery, he traces my lips with his thumb, adding pressure at their center. My heart warms as love lights his whole being, igniting a sensation within the room. No words need to be said. He’s telling me everything he is.