Forgotten Yesterday (12 page)

“Yeah, it has a bit of a reputation.”

“So I hear. The cab driver said I should order the milkshake.”

“Don’t you dare,” I protest, pinning a glare in his direction.

“Why not?” he laughs defensively, stepping in closer. He smells of the same cologne from earlier and soap.

“Trust me. You need to be drunk to fully appreciate it.”

“Who says I’m not?” He raises his brows. “We won, you know. Maybe I celebrated the whole way back.”

“Fine,” I playfully concede. “Order at your own risk.”

He gestures a hand toward the door. “Shall we?”

“Sure.”

I lead us past the picnic tables sitting out front to the shop’s entrance.

“I can’t believe I’m taking part in a hot dog booty call,” Brent remarks, pulling open the door.

“Well, I want you to have the full Chicago experience while you’re here. Hot dog booty call and all. Plus, they’re open late.”

The door closes behind us and the warmth surrounds me, allowing my tense muscles to relax. There are currently no other customers, a clear dichotomy from late Friday and Saturday nights, in the open, but small dining area. A few stools rest under a ledge that runs the parameter of the grey space, intended for casual dining. A large woman passes into view of the ordering window, sparing us a glance.

“Fire up the grill,” she shouts back to the other employees. “We got some horny fuckers in here looking for some meat. The honeymoon starts now.”

Brent slowly turns his head in my direction with a wide-eyed, dumbfounded look. I sour my lips, holding in a laugh, and shrug one shoulder, acting clueless.

“Come on bitch,” the girl calls from the window, leaning on her elbows. “Don’t be a cheap shit. Buy your woman some food.”

Brent holds my gaze waiting for a reaction, but I’ve been here before, so I pretend that the boisterous hollers have no affect on me.

“Do you know what you want?” I encourage him.

He opens his mouth to speak and then tongues the inside of his cheek. A small grin creeps up the longer he holds my attention. I think he’s catching on that there’s something “special” about eating here. 

“Let me take a look at the menu,” he replies.

“Ah shit,” the woman cackles. “We gotta reader. Listen, Imma give it to you straight. Hot dog, Polish, or burger. We cook it how you like it. We got fries too. That’s it.”

“No shakes?” Brent asks me, confused.

“Oh no, motherfucker!” the woman at the window shouts. She then turns, addressing one of the employees working with her. “You hear this shit? This motherfucker, here, thinks he wants a shake.”

“Oh yeah?” The other woman, smaller in stature, comes to join her in the window. “This guy, here?” She glowers at Brent, up and down, and then bends over in hysterics.

“What’s so funny?” Brent questions me.

“I told you.”

“You told me what?”

“Not to go there.” Without a thought, I place my hand on his shoulder. “Just order and you can look it up on the online later.”

“Ooooooooooh,” the larger woman hoots. Brent and I turn back to the window, finding her by herself with a sassy expression. The other woman continues to laugh in the background. “Now, now, kiddies, no hanky-panky in this fine establishment. You keep your hands to yourself.” She looks directly at Brent. “And don’t you worry, hot stuff. I’m sure you will get some if you’re not a cheap fucker.”

Brent starts toward the window to order and I follow close behind.

“So, you still want that shake?” she sasses with Brent.

“No. I guess not,” he says, leaning in closer, like it’s a private conversation.

“Mmmmhmmmmm. That’s right. You couldn’t handle it anyhow. I can tell you like your shakes small.” Her eyes dart to me. “And all we have here is extra,
extra
large.”

“If you say so,” Brent laughs. “Give me a hot dog.”

The woman leans back with mock disgust. “Now hold up Mr. All-American. Where are your fucking manners? Didn’t your mama teach you ladies first?”

“Fuck, I can’t win.”

I stifle a giggle. Brent was never one to cuss much in the past, and that may have changed over the years, but I would guess his profanity is an effect of this place. I even feel the need to start shouting insane amounts of nasty verbal vomit.

Brent backs away from the counter, opening his stance to me. “Bitches first.”

“Now that’s more like it,” the woman says approvingly. “We gotta keep these men in their place,” she addresses me, her voice dripping with honey. “So, what can I get you, sweetheart?”

“Char Dog with mustard.”

“I like that. A girl who knows what she wants. Now you?” she asks Brent.

“Same.”

“Smart. I can see you’re learning. You want fries? Don’t go all-cheap ass now. You’re so close to getting that pussy. You don’t want to blow it by not properly wining and dining.”

“Sure. Why not? An order of fries too.”

“With cheese. If you love her you get the fucking cheese. No pussy without the cheese.”

“No cheese,” I interrupt.

The woman waggles her finger at me with a glint in her eye. “See, I knew I liked you. You gonna make him work for your pussy.”

“Yeah,” I giggle. “He’s gonna have to work real hard.”

Brent snaps his head in my direction, mouth gaping, in pseudo astonishment.

“All right Captain America. You better be paying.”

Brent pulls out his wallet and hands over his credit card.

The woman tsks. “And here I thought you could read. Where do you want me to slide that? My ass? Read the sign. Cash only, motherfucker.”

“Shit. Nothing but the finest,” Brent mutters. He pulls out a twenty and holds it out towards her. “And you better give me change, bitch.”

She fakes a smile, taking the bill from Brent’s hand. “You bet your sweet ass I will.”

She rings our orders into the register and gives Brent back his change.

“Did you miss this one, too?” she asks, grabbing the small bucket sitting on the counter and shoving it toward him.

On the front, written in permanent marker, it states:

All Bitches Must Tip

“Of course not.” Brent takes one of the bills and drops it inside. “Bitch.”

“Thank you,” she drawls innocently. “Your food will be right up.”

I grab the fabric of Brent’s coat, directing him to the side where we can wait for our food to come out. He glares at me, waiting for an explanation, but I just can’t give him one.
If I talk, I’ll bust up laughing
. His dimples keep making an appearance, even though he’s trying hard to look right-pissed. I’m barely containing my giggles. And then,
hell
, I’m
not
containing them at all. Snorting at his expression, I cover my mouth to muffle my bubbling cackle.

“I wish you could see the look on your face right now,” I tell him, through hiccupping snickers.

“What the
hell
kind of place is this? Don’t tell me all Chicago hot dogs are sold this way now.”

“Nope.” I wipe a tear from laughter away with my knuckle. “Just this place. They have the foul-mouth service market cornered.”

“Well they do one hell of a job. Is the food even any good?”

“It is, actually. One of the best places in the city, but most people come here for the late night customer service.”

“It’s memorable, that’s for sure.” He rests an elbow on the edge of the counter by the window. “I’m not doing a web search, so just tell me. What’s up with the milkshake?”

“Think Mardi Gras.”

Tilting his head down, Brent tightens his expression, lost in thought for a short moment. Then it sinks in.

“That’s what I asked for?” He takes another look at the woman who took our order, now taking care of and cussing at another customer. “For her to shake…her…”

“Yes you did.” I bust up in hysterics, leaning in and resting my head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I tried to warn you.”

“Yeah,” he laughs with me. “But you didn’t say anything about the rest of it. That woman tried to rip me a new asshole with her insatiable service techniques.”

“I know.”
I’m still laughing.

There’s a shout from the service window that our food is up. Brent’s lips sweep across my hair and my whole body to stills.

“I’ll get it,” he says. “You’re obviously out of commission right now.”

I disconnect myself from his shoulder and lean back, calming my laughter while he picks up our order. By the time he comes back, my giggles are in check, but I can’t seem to shake my cheek-aching smile.

Brent sets our food on the counter that abuts the window. He arranges it so there’s a hot dog in front of each of us with the fries in the middle. I pick up mine and take a bite.
It’s so good.
Brent does the same and ends up devouring his before I’ve even finished half of my own dog. I nudge the basket of fries in his direction, signaling that he can have them. It’s noticeable that his appetite is more ferocious than mine. He picks at the fries eating most of them by the time I’ve finished my char dog.

“You can have the rest,” I tell him after swallowing my last bite. “I don’t really want any, anyhow. I’m not that hungry.”

“You sure?”

I wipe my fingers on a napkin. “Go on. I can tell you’re hungry.”

“Yeah, must have been masked by all of those nerves in my stomach about seeing you again.”

My heart leaps into my throat. He’s been putting a lot out there. Risking rejection by kissing me after brunch, telling me he can’t stop thinking of me earlier on the phone, and now admitting his anxiety about seeing me tonight. I haven’t been very open, at all, about how much he’s affected me in the past two days.
It’s time to change that.

“Seeing you has really thrown me for a loop, too,” I tell him frankly.

Brent stops sifting through the fries and looks vacantly out the window. My hands continue to smooth the edges of the napkin with no purpose.
I’m fidgeting.

“How?” he asks cautiously.

“A lot of ways.” I bite my lower lip.

“Good ways or bad ways?”

“A little bit of both, I think.”

He reaches across the counter and allows his index finger to lightly trace the length of my own. I watch as his palm searches for mine, and our hands easily come together. A little too easily, like four years of time hasn’t come between them.

Closing the area separating us, he softly says, “Me too.”

Thirteen

We finish eating and exit into the late night, or rather the early morning, since it’s now past midnight. The light rain has stopped and with no set plan, Brent and I decide to take a walk. We trek north, past the closed shops and restaurants before coming upon a busier intersection. At the major crossroad, I veer us to the west, away from the lake. I frequent this area often since it’s where I do most of my shopping. My apartment isn’t far from here.

Together in silence, we travel a few blocks before I feel Brent’s hand reach into my pocket to find my own. Easily, instinctually, and without a thought, I lace my fingers with his. Hand in hand for another block, I catch him grinning in my peripheral vision. Everything feels so familiar.
Is this backpedaling?

Brent sneaks a peek at me and I can’t help but mirror his smile. He stops, beckoning my full attention and angles himself in my direction. My heart starts to feel larger—warmer. I’m getting caught up in him—fast—too fast.

“So?” he says it like a question.

“So, what?” I laugh a little.

“So, now what?”

“I don’t know. What time’s your flight tomorrow?” I ask.

“Noon. We’re heading to the airport at nine.”

“Oh.” I pull my hand from his, not even realizing it until it lands at my side. “Okay.”

Brent shoves both of his hands in his pockets, acknowledging the predicament at the same time as myself.
Tomorrow will be here soon.

“Ruby, I just wanted to see you. That’s all.”

“I know.” I back up, leaning against one of the storefront windows, darkened by the overhanging awning. “I wanted to see you, too.”

“Is something…wrong?”

“No. Yes.” I sweep a strand of hair from my brow. “It’s just…I’m just so confused. You’re here out of nowhere and you’re leaving tomorrow and everything that happened—”

“The baby?”

“Yes, the baby. But not just that. Everything. There’s just so much and I…”

With his hands still in his pockets, Brent approaches me, invading every inch of my personal space possible without any actual contact.
He’s in my bubble, and dammit, I want him in it.

Refusing to face him, knowing that his expressive features will just pull me in dangerously further, I watch the pulse thrumming on his neck. He’s completely taking over me. I shut my eyes, cutting off my vision, only to feel his heat more acutely and smell his cologne more distinctly.
I’m in so much trouble.

“What if,” his voice hums, “it never happened at all? Do you ever think that we would still be together?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I never saw my life without you back then. But I try not to think about it.”

“Why?”

“Because it did happen.” I tighten my lids, pushing back the tears. Quietly I add, “And you’re doing what you should have been doing all along.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s obvious you never should have come to Chicago with me.” My vision swims with unshed tears. “You should have gone to State with your athletic scholarship, like you originally planned. You’re finally doing what you should be.”

He mouth tightens, forming a hard line.

“I didn’t go to Chicago because of you. I did it for my parents. I thought you knew that. Their expectations of me were never soccer. That’s why I chose the Top Ten School over State. Us going together was always fate. Nothing else.”

“Yeah, well fate found a way to tear us apart, too.”

“What do you call this?” He presses his form into me. “What do you call me walking into a place where you work, in a city neither one of us should be in?”