“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 you 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 co
ming 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.
After most of the emotions are let go, I inhale a few deep breaths, and I concentrate on the white space above me. It’s a vast, empty nothing—just like me. I’ve been completely hollowed out.
My phone blares again, but I don’t have the energy to talk further on a point that’s at an impasse. I turn it off and then nudge it gently to the side of the bed, letting it fall to the floor with an echoing thump. Still in my clothes, I wrap the comforter around my lonely form, creating a cocoon to hold myself together. My arm reaches out and switches off the lamp, and then the room plunges into darkness. The moon and city lights filter through the window near the kitchen area, blanketing the room with a hint of brightness.
Brent loves me, and I understand his reasons for all his actions and his words, but none of them bring peace to my heart. Only his arms do that, and I don’t have them.
I tightly fold my own arms around my waist, a poor imitation for what my body needs, and I close myself off from the world, fighting away the reality.
THIRTY-NINE
Opening my building’s door, my chilled, raw cheeks welcome the warmth. Entering inside, I tug the hat from my head and shake off the snow built up from the light scattering that began halfway through my run. It’s extremely chilly today. Any other day like this, I wouldn’t have ventured out for a jaunt, but I felt that it would do me some good, especially after last night. It’s a routine, and routines always help when I’m feeling unbalanced and unsure.
Last night, I fell into an exhausted sleep. I awoke this morning feeling slightly better but not great. My emotions were everywhere—frantic, needy, and true.
I need Brent more than I realized.
I don’t know where we go from here. I’ve showed my hand and made it clear what I want and who I want, but apparently, my urgency for that person isn’t a possibility.
So, I’m back to the motions. They’re all I have to get by.
I’m tired of surviving.
I want to be living.
Unlocking my apartment, I enter, toe off my shoes, and pad toward my bed. Dropping to my knees at the edge of the mattress, I scoop up my phone from where it fell on the floor last night. I didn’t have the courage to deal with it this morning, but after my run, I’m feeling much better. Sitting cross-legged on the hardwood, I power it on and discover three voice mails and over twenty texts from Brent.
I feel terrible. It’s apparent that he’s worried, and I caused his distress with my irrational and impulsive behavior.
I rise from the floor, take a deep breath, and toss the phone onto the mattress, resolving to deal with it after I’ve cleaned up. I’m still not ready.
After slipping off my running clothes, I submerge myself under the hot water of the shower, relaxing my entire form. The warm liquid is a shock to my cold skin in a refreshing and awakening way. Once I’m thoroughly cleansed, I’m more at ease and ready to go through the slew of messages waiting for me on my bed. I turn off the taps, exit into the steamy room, and towel off. I quickly dress to retain my body heat and then blow out my hair enough so that I don’t get chilly.
Rounding the corner, I head straight into the main room.
“Shit!” I yelp, startled by the sight of a figure in my apartment.
On my bed, still in his jacket, sits Brent with his elbows on his knees and my phone in his hand. Neatly placed next to him on top of the comforter lays his hat and gloves. Near his right knee, extending upward from the floor, is a large suitcase, bigger than the one he had during his extended stay.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with my hand over my rapidly beating heart.
“You wouldn’t answer your phone.” He sets the item in question down near his thigh. “I would have been here sooner if it weren’t for the weather delay. O’Hare is notorious for them.”
I blink a few times, taking in the fact that he’s sitting right before me. The reality hits that doubting place in my brain when his fingers comb through the top of his ebony hair, tussling it to one side. He stands, grabs his hat and gloves, and takes off his jacket as he approaches where I’m standing at the dressing area threshold.
“Excuse me,” he quietly says, stepping around me and entering the closet.
I’m a statue, still in shock.
He passes by me, and I breathe him in.
He’s here. It’s real.
Without a word, Brent hangs his jacket in the same place it lived for two months. I never filled his side of the closet. His allotted drawers are still empty. Even his space in the bathroom, albeit a small one, was never taken over by my items. I never filled any part he vacated.
Circling back to the main room, Brent rolls his suitcase into the closet area, lays it on the ground, squats down, and unzips it to reveal the contents.
“Brent?” I question. “What are you doing?”
“Unpacking,” he answers evenly. “And then, I was thinking maybe we could go out for lunch. How does that sound?”
The calm demeanor, the calculated answers, and his methodical movements—he’s scaring me.
I’m so confused. Why is he here?
Brent unpacks everything from his luggage and makes himself at home. He steps out of the bathroom and then comes to stand in front of me at the threshold of the closet area. His green orbs glaze over, pricking with tears, as he rests his head on mine.
My heart beats loud and even, praying for him to steal away the distance aching within my soul.
“I heard you,” he murmurs. “You were right. I was taking away your choices, but I couldn’t see that because I was doing what I thought was for the best.”
His mouth inches closer to mine, and the heat of his breath sears upon my lips.
“But the best thing is for us to be together. It’s the only thing that matters.” His familiar palms slide up my arms and around my back as he pulls me into a firm embrace. “I left you once before, and I’ll never do it again. You need me, and I need you. It’s a simple problem with a simple solution.”
“What’s that?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“I’m here. With you.” The soft cells of his lips whisper across my own. “I told you I would always come for you.”
“What are you saying?”
His fingertips press their pads into my flesh. “Last night, I realized I was losing you. I could hear it in your voice. You were heading somewhere I swore to myself I would never let you go again.”
“About last night—”
“Shh…”
He presses his mouth to mine, instantly pilfering away my want and confusion. Every shallow crevice in my heart is filled with his soul sealing to mine. The world around us is forgotten, leaving only two people joining to make one.
I’m living again.
I’m no longer going through the motions.
This is life. This is love.
“It’s clear what you need,” he says, his mouth grazing my own. “And it’s the same as me, but I still won’t take away anything from you.”
I peek around his shoulder. The closet is full with his clothes, and his empty suitcase sits in the corner.
“How long are you staying?” I ask.
“Forever,” he responds, not missing a beat.
There’s not even a question in
his reply. There’s no debating his words.
“How? You have a scrimmage on Tuesday and next weekend, too.” I search his expressionless face. “What are you doing?”
“You’re the answer. I told you.” His hands cup my face. “I looked everywhere else, and I’ve learned from my mistakes. In the end, all that matters is that you’re with me. I don’t need anything but you. I’m taking away the distance, so it’s no longer an issue.”
“Brent…you can’t give up everything for me.”
“No, what I can’t give up is you.” His breath catches. “You’re the reason I live, Ruby—the reason my heart beats, my blood flows through my veins, and my lungs take in air. You’re the only reason I wake up every day. This”—he takes my hand and places it on his hard-thumping heart—“has no purpose without you. And neither do I. In order to thrive, all I need is the person standing right in front of me.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, tears escaping. “Are you really serious?”
“Yes.” His thumb brushes away the wetness drawing a line to my chin.
“I can’t let you do that,” I choke, slipping out of his arms and into the wide space of the apartment.
I turn to face him where he remains in the dressing area entrance, his hands hanging heavy.
“You can’t just quit everything. Do you know the kinds of things they were saying about you? Your talent? Your—”
“I don’t care!” Brent charges toward me and takes my face in his hands. His eyes are fierce and hungry. “You are not sending me away again. You don’t get to do that anymore! I’m not going to ask if you want me to stay.” His fingers curl into my hair. “You’re my entire life. I. Love. You.”
“I love you, too,” I stutter through all the bubbling emotions. “With everything I am.”
“Then, what are we talking about?”
His mouth is on mine before I can catch a breath. My fingers hastily explore his jaw, his neck, and his head of hair before finding their way to the hem of his shirt. There, they peek and flirt with the warm bare skin beneath, another point of remembrance and home.
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