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.
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?”
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