Deciding Tomorrow (20 page)

In the restaurant kitchen near one of the registers, Colin, the manager on duty, prints out my sales for the evening. Taking the paperwork aside, I go through the night’s till to confirm that everything is correct before handing it in and clocking out for the evening. Heading downstairs into the employee break area, I grab my jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, and bag, and then I scurry up the steps to leave. Rounding the chrome prep area, I see two bussers stacking away dishes as the night winds down.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, walking past them and waving. “Hope you get to go home soon.”

“Merry Christmas,” they reply in unison, one shifting the glassware while the other stacks the porcelain dishes.

Through the galley, I make my way into the cook area.

“Have a good night,” Brian, one of the cooks, calls to me over the shelving.

“You, too, Brian.” I slip on my gloves. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you.” He leisurely plates a dish, likely one of the last ones for the evening. “Are you doing anything special?”

“Just visiting with my dad tomorrow,” I say, not giving too many details. The topic of visiting a prison on the holidays usually dampens anyone’s mood. “How about you?”

“Going to my sister’s house in Oak Park. Our family rotates every year, and it’s her turn to host. Plus, she and her husband just bought a house, and I think they want to show it off.”

“I see.” I pull my blue hat over my ears, preparing for the inclement weather outside. “What about Lauren? You spending it with her, too?”

Not too long ago, Brian and I were almost dating—that was, until Brent popped back into my life. Brian and I flirted with one another, hung out a few times with a group of people, and sort of went out once, but it never went any further. Shortly after our lame attempt at seeing one another, I went to L.A., and everything changed.

My life was flipped upside down—or rather, my heart was when Brent and I decided to give us a second chance. When I returned from my trip to L.A., I told Brian that I was dating Brent, and then Brian started seeing someone else—actually, a few someone elses. He’s been seeing Lauren, a new hostess, for a few weeks. He and I still remain friends—or friendly work colleagues is probably the best way to put it. We always were before, and there was no reason for that to change.

“She went back to Indiana yesterday to be with her family,” Brian replies to my question. “But we’ll get together for New Year’s Eve. I got tickets for a huge event up in Lakeview that’s supposed to be really great. Five bands are scheduled to play. My cousin hooked me up with VIP tickets and backstage passes.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Should be.” He adjusts the white hat on his head. “What about you? Is Brent part of your holiday plans with your dad?”

I adjust the bag over my shoulder. “He is. He came back today, and we’ll be driving down tomorrow morning to visit him. Not sure about New Year’s yet.” I fasten the last button on my camel wool coat. “I gotta go. Have a good night.” I wave.

“Thanks. You, too.”

Exiting the kitchen, I say farewell to a few more fellow employees, including Pat and his nephew, Carl, who are working the bar. A few of their relatives stopped by, and the atmosphere is much more festive than usual. With a final good-bye to the staff at the host stand, I depart into the extremely chilly evening air of Chicago.

My hand instinctually reaches for the phone in my pocket to call and let Brent know that I’m on my way.

There’s a text from him.
Of course there is
.

Brent: I have a surprise for you when you get home.

Oh Lord, who knows what that could mean?

His text might appear innocent, but it’s too vague. This so-called
surprise
could be something sweet, like dessert, or it could be something as simple as a
friend
in his pants that I need to go
searching
for.

Not even bothering to text him back, I hit Send, calling his number. It takes a few rings for him to answer.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Brent says a little too smoothly. “Are you coming home soon?”

“Yeah.” I wrap my free arm around my waist as a gust of wind whips through the streets. “I just got off, and I’m catching a cab, so I should be there in about fifteen minutes or so.”

“Great. I can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see you either.” A stronger blast of air surges across my body, causing me to sidestep on the sidewalk. “The wind is getting crazy. I’d better get going. I’ll be there soon.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks with a hint of sarcasm.

“What?”

“Um, hello?” he teases. “You love me?”

I raise my hand to hail a vacant cab turning the corner. “Fine. You love me.”

“Smart-ass.”

“Totally.” The yellow car stops at the curb, and I open the back door, aided heavily by a cold blast of air. “But you love it.”

“Yeah, I kind of do.”

“Hang on.” I enter the cab, shut the door, and then tell the driver my address. “Who could blame you? I am kind of irresistible.”

“Aren’t we confident?”

“Nah, I’m talking out of my ass.” The car veers to the left, out of the main stream of traffic, using less common roads to head north. “I’ve missed you by the way.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“Well, I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“Okay, see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

We hang up, and I sit back in the black vinyl seats, watching the city go by. I hate to admit it, but the four days apart were harder than I’d thought they would be. We’ve been spending so much time together—practically in each other’s space almost twenty-four hours a day for the last month—that those four days alone have felt like an eternity. I knew he was coming back, so that helped, but I’ve gotten entirely too used to having him around. In less than a month, he’ll be back in L.A., and I’ll still be here. If four days was painful, I don’t even want to think about his impending departure.

The car stops at my apartment building. I pay the driver and exit onto the curb. I pull my key out of my purse as I tread up the walkway to the front door of my residence. Entering quickly to escape the cold, I dash up the steps and down the hall to my place. I open the door, flick off my shoes, and step around the corner into the main part of the apartment.

It’s dark, but I don’t turn on the light because the room is illuminated by the glow from a tree in the corner—one that wasn’t here when I left. The soft twinkle, shining and reflecting on the hardwood floor, reveals that the plump, well-decorated tree isn’t the only difference in the room since I left earlier today. The bed has been rearranged, allowing space for a new small love seat and armchair.

I don’t even recognize my apartment.

“Cromwell!” I call, slightly peeved, while unbuttoning my coat.

Brent comes out of the dressing area where he’s obviously been hiding while waiting for me to come home. “Yes?” he innocently asks, brows raised with a grin playing across his features. “Can I help you?”

I slip off my hat and stuff it into my pocket. “What is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

I stomp my foot and drop my bag to the floor. “What the hell did you do?”

He approaches, arms wide, and he envelops me, hugging me tight. His arms are meant to hold me, but my hands hang loose at my sides overcome by the additions to the apartment.

“I missed you, too.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I lean back in his embrace, overwhelmed by him and having him back. My heart beats hard and steady. He smells the same and smiles the same, and he makes my blood flow wildly, just as I remember. Four days of absence are quickly forgotten.

“What is all of this?”

“It’s a tree.” He smirks. “Haven’t you ever seen a Christmas tree before?”

“Yes, I’ve seen a tree before.” My hands join together behind his back. “But what the hell is going on?”

“What? Didn’t you want a tree?”

“It’s just a surprise, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting it.” I scan the entirely new-to-me layout. “Any of it.”

“It’s Christmas, and this place needed a tree. Plus, I wanted one.”

“I love the tree.” I look deep into his eyes, almost black in the dim light. “It’s beautiful.” My arms tighten around his lower back, refamiliarizing with his form. “Thank you.”

I kiss him. My lips remember his, and they take their time exploring his taste and texture. Our first kiss in days somehow has a newness to it, but it is outweighed by its familiarity.

“What about the other stuff?” I ask against his mouth.

“What stuff?” He continues to play coy.

“A lot more furniture is here than before I left for work.” I nestle my body into his. “It’s nice, but you can’t buy me furniture.”

“I didn’t.”

My hands drop. “Okay. Now, I’m confused. What the hell is going on?”

“Well…” He steps back, combs his hand through his hair, and then leads us across the room.

Brent plops down on the leather club chair and pulls me onto his lap. Tucking my hair behind my ears and away from my face, Brent kisses me a few more times.

“This is nice, right?” he asks.

“You or the chair?”

“All of it?” He shrugs. “The whole thing.”

“Yes, it’s all very nice.” My index finger traces the line of his jaw. I tap my foot on the arm of the chair. “But you still haven’t told me what this is doing here.” Then, I tilt my head toward the small pale blue sofa across from us. “Or that.”

He clutches my hand. “I bought them a few weeks ago.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I wanted them.” He tongues the inside of his cheek. “That day we went into the store and I sat in this chair with you sitting across from me, everything just felt right. I never wanted to own something so badly as I did in that moment. Me in the chair, you in the same room…I don’t know. I knew it was impulsive, but I went back and bought them while you were at work. I had no clue what I was going to do with them. I put them in storage at first, thinking I would ship them to my place, but…”

“But what?”

“I was thinking.” He pauses, apprehensive. “Maybe I could keep them here…with you.”

I sour my lips. “This sounds like some kind of tricky way for you to buy me furniture, like some loophole in our twenty-dollar Christmas gift agreement.”

Brent doesn’t reply with anything other than a persuasive expression, his piercing eyes pleading.

“Brent!” I playfully hit his shoulder. “No way.”

“Well…” He hems and haws. “I guess I’ll figure out a way to have it all shipped to California.” He deliberately bats his green eyes with those dark lashes fluttering in exaggeration.

“Ugh.” I laugh. “Fine. You can keep
your
furniture here. Just remember, they’re yours, not mine.”

“Thank you.” His fingers thread with mine.

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t told you my storage fee.”

Cheerfulness returns to his face. “And what’s that?”

“I only deal in kisses—lots and lots of kisses.”

“Just kisses?”

“I might be open to other offers.”

“Good.” His lips touch mine. “Because I bought ice cream, too.”

TWENTY-THREE

An oppressive gray sky and scattering of snowfall greet us this brisk morning. It’s Christmas, and for the first time in all my memories, I awoke smiling on the holiday. Brent was next to me, and his steady inhales and exhales brought peace to the start of a stressful day. My objections about him staying for the holiday were completely about him, but deep inside, I’m glad he’s spending it with me despite my stubborn fight.

We’ve been in the car for some time with Brent at the wheel and me in the passenger seat. It’s not much farther before we will reach the entrance to where my father has called home for the last three years. The gated area of the prison, expansive chain-link fence, concrete blocks, and watchtowers just came into view.

Brent’s hand finds mine in my lap. Having been here before on several occasions, I’m not nervous about seeing my father. I’ve visited in the past, but coming with Brent is something new, and I hope my father takes it well.

My dad’s not privy to my miscarriage. He doesn’t even know that I was ever pregnant. That was something I didn’t want to share with many, especially my father because I feared it would trouble his sobriety. However, he was there for my overly depressive state when Brent departed to Sweden. It was obvious Brent’s absence was directly connected to my demise, and my father might harbor some issues over that point.

My father is aware that Brent is coming with me today. As part of the visitation procedures, we had to submit an application for Brent. Once the warden approved him, I received a letter from my dad saying that he was excited about seeing us, so I’m optimistic.

We pull into the parking lot and find a spot. Brent turns off the engine, and wordlessly, we exit the vehicle.

“Make sure to lock it,” I say, rounding the back of the car to join him.

He clicks the button.

“High theft rate, I guess.”

“Makes sense,” he remarks tentatively.

We join hands and walk together toward the prison entrance. It’s the beginning of visiting hours, and many other families are here already, waiting to see their loved ones. We queue up outside of the facility.

Brent’s arm wraps around my shoulder, shielding my body from the wind. “Is it always like this?” he asks quietly in my ear. “The line?”

“Yeah, it usually is. Hopefully, it won’t take too long for us to get inside. Some days, the wait is really long.”

About forty-five minutes later, we enter the building and commence visitor processing—checking in, getting badges, and going through security. By the time we reach the already crowded visitation room, almost two hours have passed since our arrival in the parking lot.

Brent and I sit at the table set aside for us in a room full of laughter and tears. I’m anticipating my father’s entrance. It’s another fifteen minutes or so before he’s escorted over to us by one of the correctional officers. Rising from the table as he approaches, my grip tightens around Brent’s hand. It’s been a few months since my last visit. While my father seems the same as he did then, I never get used to his appearance. His frame is slighter than it was when he first came in. He’s lost about forty pounds over the years. His hair is shorter, exposing more of the gray as well as his age. Other than that, his appearance is good. His complexion is clear, and his posture is confident.