Brent touches my elbow and then searches for my palm before lacing our fingers together. He shakes them a little, silently calling for my attention. Turning so that my shoulder is against the seat, I position myself to face him once again. He peeks in my direction, and it’s clear that his moment of teasing has come to an end—for now.
“I’m really glad I found you again.” He takes our joined hands and rests them on his leg.
“Me, too.”
TWO
Pulling off the main thoroughfare, we proceed down a narrow street. Straight ahead, the ocean water sparkles under the sun and into the horizon. The road is framed on both sides with stucco houses, pale in color, that extend higher than they are wide. Traveling a few short blocks, the height of the homes gets smaller and smaller as we progress closer to the water. The street declines drastically.
Brent pulls into the short driveway of a house about two blocks from where the pavement ends, and the sand begins.
“This is it,” he says, putting the car into park and shutting off the engine. “Are you ready to go in?”
Gazing through the windshield, I note the size of the house. I wish he’d said something, so I didn’t feel so…surprised. It’s no secret that Brent makes good money, way more than I could have ever imagined, but having a place this close to the ocean and of this size is impressive, and not to mention, likely expensive.
“Are you ready?” he questions me again.
I gulp. “No, but let’s go.”
Placing my hand on the door, I empty myself from the car into the warm California air, and the salty scent of the ocean hits my nose. The slightly humid breeze whips my brunette hair around, causing a few strands to cling to my lip balm–covered mouth. I tug out my bag from the backseat and sling it over my shoulder.
“Let me get that,” Brent says, reaching for the strap of my duffel.
“It’s okay. I got it.”
He tongues the inside of his cheek and nods, and then he starts toward the side of the house with me following close behind.
“The front door is upstairs?” I ask when a set of steps comes into view.
“No, but my place is.”
“Oh.”
He climbs the stucco-lined staircase with me on his heels. Of course I check out his ass. It’s right there.
“So, you live in an apartment?”
“Yeah, the top unit is mine.”
“I see.” I obviously overreacted about the size of the house. The location is still amazing though.
He peeks down at me over his shoulder. “It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”
“What isn’t?”
“The climb.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
We reach the top landing, and Brent pulls out his keys.
“It’s no worse than the flight of stairs to my apartment,” I add.
He turns the knob and opens the door, revealing the interior of his place. He steps aside and allows me to enter first. The space itself is open, and the view from the entryway alone is breathtaking. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, just over the neighbors’ rooftops lays the pristine ocean water where the waves are gently lapping. The thin whitecaps break at the ocean’s surface into the hazy horizon.
“Let me take your bag,” Brent says, pulling the strap from my shoulder.
We tread down the short hallway, passing the open kitchen to the right, and we stop in the living area where he sets my bag down near the couch. I continue toward the glass doors leading to the balcony.
“Cohen’s still here,” Brent states, joining me at the edge of the room. “He’ll be leaving tonight after the match. I’ll put your bag in the spare room once he’s packed.”
The spare room?
“Okay,” I say, lifting my eyes to meet his before looking out the glass door again.
“Is it? Okay?”
I sigh. Time to pull the truth card. “I just assumed that I would be staying with you, not in the guest room.”
“You can stay with me,” he says, apologetic. “I just didn’t want you to feel pressured into anything or think…well, you know, that I expect for us to...”
I lean my forehead against the cool glass. “I brought my chastity belt, if that helps.”
“I’m serious.” His tone indicates that he’s not fond of my sarcasm.
“Brent…this is all…”
“What?”
“Easy and hard at the same time.”
“That’s an understatement.” He steps in closer, grasping my fingertips with his own. “I wish there were some rule book of how to do this. I don’t know where to start.”
“Neither do I.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“I know you are, and I appreciate it.”
“But you don’t like it, do you?”
I lick my lips. “No, I do. It’s just…”
“Tell me,” he insists.
“I don’t know. I want to do the right thing, too, but I don’t know what that is.” I grunt, frustrated. “I don’t want to stay in the guest room.”
Brent smirks, and his dimple dances on the left side of his face. “I don’t want you to either.”
He pulls me against his firm chest, and my hands make their way around his waist, hooking behind his back. Inhaling deeply, I relax into him as he squeezes me tightly.
“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he quietly says.
“And that’s why I trust that you won’t.”
Turning my head, the sound of his heart beats strongly against my ear, and a comforting feeling from long ago suddenly comes within my grasp despite our time apart.
Someone clearing his throat alerts us that we’re not alone. Disconnecting my hands, I turn toward the center of the room. Brent slides his arm over my shoulder as we face his younger and only brother, Cohen.
Cohen certainly has grown up a lot since I last saw him almost five years ago. Their build is similar, only Brent has grown more into his frame, and their height is almost identical. However, Cohen’s eyes are much lighter, more of a blue hue, and his hair is a sandy color.
“Hey, Cohen,” Brent says. “You’re awake.”
“Yep.” He shoves one hand in his jeans pocket while the other scratches the back of his head. “Showered, too.”
“Hi, Cohen,” I say, stepping out of Brent’s arm to more formerly greet his brother. “Long time no see. How have you been?”
“Not bad, Ruby. And yourself?”
“Good. Brent said you’re at UNC? In North Carolina?”
“Yep.”
Unsure of what else to say, I wait in the growing silence as Cohen continues to scratch the back of his head.
“You hungry?” Brent asks both of us. Sidling next to me, he takes my hand in his.
Cohen gawks at the place where our fingers connect. “Yeah, I could use something to eat.” He makes his way toward the bar in the open kitchen.
“I’m good, but I’d like to freshen up in the bathroom,” I say, turning to Brent. “Can you tell me where it is?”
“I’ll show you.” He drops my hand, steps behind me, and picks up my bag from the floor. “You can use the one in my bedroom.”
I follow Brent down a short hallway, passing a small bathroom and what appears to be the spare room, before coming to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
Muted beige walls are the backdrop to the main bedroom decorated with black-and-white photographs of buildings and bridges. The bed is made and covered with a cream-and-charcoal duvet. The whole space is clean and sparse, and it feels nothing like the Brent I knew.
He sets my bag down on the bed and then switches on the light, illuminating the bathroom. “Here you go,” he says.
“Thanks.” With trepidation, I slowly walk to the sliding glass door, similar to the one in the living area, and I look out over the ocean. “Your place is really nice.”
“Thanks.” He leans his shoulder against the bathroom doorframe. �
�The realtor picked it out before I returned to the States. This one came furnished, so it made the choice easy.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A little over a year.”
I nod my head.
Brent is silent for a moment, and then he makes his way to exit the bedroom. “I’ll be in the living room. Take your time. Use anything you need.”
“Thanks.”
He steps into the hallway and leaves me alone in the crisp, stark room. I open my bag and pull out two shirts, a dress, and a pair of shoes. Finding the closet, I hang my clothes to let them air out next to Brent’s. My fingers, completely out of my control, run along the fabrics of his garments, greeting the long-lost friends that I’ve never met.
Closing the closet door, I pick up my shoes and place them next to the upholstered chair sitting in the corner. Near there, on the bedside table, lies a photograph of me from some time ago.
I didn’t know this existed.
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 wai
t 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 near 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.”
Deciding Tomorrow Page 2