Don’t you want to see me?
He answered: Just stay the fuck home and wait for me.
So he wasn’t anxious to see me then at all?
You want me home? So all your fans can scream at you and see you and not ME? Fuck you!
I added the red, fuming emoticon after that so he’d know he’d pissed me off, then I tossed the phone aside and stewed in my own juices until I wanted to explode. Stay home? Home is where he is. Motherfucker.
This morning my roses doubled in amount.
When Riley talked to Melanie this morning, he told her to tell me that Remington hoped I liked my flowers, and that he wants me to send the link of the song I told him about yesterday by text.
Ha.
I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like sending him shit.
Our baby is doing well, and I’m so excited the cream seems to be working. The spotting has stopped completely, but the hormones in me? They are raging. I am dying. To see him. I’ve defended him, me, and our baby to my parents daily, telling them that I have not been discarded or used, that he’s brought me here to be supported and taken care of, but to hear him say that he doesn’t want me at the Underground sucks balls.
All the misery I’ve been trying to keep at bay is coming at me from all sides now that I’m angry at him and don’t want to have reason to be angry at him, but, god, I can’t help it. Being on bed rest, you have nothing to do but let your head come up with a thousand and one stories about what is going on out there—in the world, without you—and none of these stories are pleasant.
“Stop sending reports, Melanie,” I say glumly that afternoon.
“Why? Riley asks, and Remington asked me to send daily reports before he left that day. He wants to know how you’re doing.”
“Stop giving detailed reports, period.”
She seems to be completely unable to keep the laughter from her voice. “Hey, you want them too! Your eyes bug out of your head when I’m listening to the other end of the line like you want supersonic ears to hear. I’ve heard you call Pete and ask how he is.”
I sigh and rub my temples. “I just worry about him.”
I’ve called Pete to ask if everything was okay and he said yes. Like a true guy, he was not very talkative on the phone except to say that they’re there if I need anything, and that Remington is training nonstop. I asked if he was speedy, and he said they were all focused on keeping that under control, and to relax, that he was trying very hard to stay blue.
What did that mean?
Pete called me a trigger once, and the thought that Remy might want to avoid me to stay blue eats me up like acid.
Mel stares at my forlorn face and shakes her head with a grin, as if she can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this. “You’re getting wrinkles as we speak; cut the frown already,” she lightly says as she brings a bowl of homemade organic popcorn for us to eat while we watch yet another movie. “Sweetie, the Underground comes through here in a week—you should be beaming!”
“I won’t even be able to go. Remington doesn’t fucking want me there.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to calm down as I wonder what would BBP—Brooke Before Pregnancy—do?
“Because he’s coming to see you after the fight. Riley told me your man plans to sleep here with you during their three-night stay.”
I cover my face. “That makes me feel even worse. Why is he arriving just in time to fight and not before, to see me?”
Melanie shrugs.
“What if Nora is right and he doesn’t want me anymore?” I continue.
She squeals with laughter now. “Okay, first of all, Nora is a cheese-head with little holes in her head, and she’s been lost all these days when she promised me she’d be coming to take care of you and is Lord-knows-where instead. She’s up on cloud nine somewhere, and you’re somewhere else—because these are definitely hormones talking here.”
“I can’t believe he doesn’t want me there. I think someone else stole his phone and texted me. Maybe a stupid whore.”
“Brooke, he’s clearly protecting you and the baby.” Melanie rolls her eyes at me as she searches my Apple TV for something to rent.
The monsters in my head prevail over her words. Baby is doing better. If my doctor gives me the green light, why wouldn’t he want me there? Does he not even miss me?
“I just don’t understand,” I grumble, grabbing one of the same stupid magazines I’ve read a thousand times and tossing it against the wall.
Melanie drops the remote and comes to stroke my hair. “Like they say, men are from Mars. Some of the ones I’ve dated are even from YourAnus—the assholes. And you, my darling, are very pregnant here. You’ve been stressed about losing the baby, stressed about missing your guy, stressed about your mama and papa not being so supportive, and Nora isn’t any help at all. You’ve been stuck with me, a nutcase, in these same four walls, for three weeks, without even feeling the sunlight. Chicken, this is why everyone who ever appeared on Big Brother went crazy, and at least they had a pool.”
I shove her playfully and laugh.
But hours later, I’m staring at my living room wall, replaying all the scenarios of Remington not wanting me. Remington seeing someone else in the stands he likes. Remington realizing a baby—as it has proven so far—is a little more trouble than a man like him would want. I am torturing myself, and my mind has gained such momentum I can’t even stop it.
“You’re distant. Where are you? With Remy?”
“He must be fighting right now.”
Right now, hundreds of people get to see him. Hundreds of women are screaming his name, lusting after him. Right now those blue eyes will have to look at something or someone else when they scan the audience and I’m not there. And even when he’ll be here, in my city, he doesn’t want me there and I don’t even know what to do.
“Don’t they stream it live on some Underworld site? Come here, I’ll bet they do!” She tugs me to my room, opens my laptop, and starts Googling. My insides jump as I wonder if they do. She squeals when she finds a link and clicks on the volume. “He’s there. Come here! Well, it’s not him—do you think he already went?”
I scan the comments. They mention him, but the commentators seem to be asking when he’ll be coming on. My heart squeezes with wanting to be there, and then Mel snatches up my hand when the announcer uses his most suspenseful voice: “I’m hearing a name out in the crowd. It keeps coming up. Can you all hear it too?” He covers one ear, and the crowd screams, in unison:
“RIPTIDE!”
My butterflies burst alive in my stomach when he goes, “That’s right! That is RIGHT, ladies and gentlemen! Now welcome, undefeated this season with a perfect score, the bad boy wonder, the one and the only, Remington Tate, Riiiiiiptide!!!”
My stomach flutters as he comes out, and the public roars in the background as the camera focuses on the ring. And then he climbs up into that ring, agile and aerodynamic, like he does. He jerks off his RIPTIDE satin robe—and the screams from the women almost break my laptop’s speakers. Far away, I see a sign that reads FOREVER RIPTIDE’S in the air.
Fascinated, Mel and I watch him make his turn. He’s smiling, drinking in the attention. Then I see him stop where he always does and automatically look at my empty seat, and then his smile falters. He pauses for a moment, then cracks his neck and goes back to Riley and turns away from the crowd.
“Aww. I think he misses you too. He never goes to his corner like that.” Melanie sighs. “Brooke? Brooke?”
I’m crying into a pillow.
“Brookey, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“Brooke, what’s wrong? Is something wrong?”
I squeeze the couch pillow tighter and then wipe my eyes.
“Ugh! It’s rained more inches in my apartment than it has in the whole of Seattle,” I groan. Then I stand and get away. I go to the kitchen, get a napkin, and am patting my tears when I hear the scream from the public as a big thunk! is heard. I rush back over and peer into the screen, and a man is splattered on the canvas, facedown, Remington standing before him, feet braced apart, chest heaving, arms at his side. Like a conquering god of war. Who I desire with every aching molecule of my body. Who can have any woman in the world and might not just want me anymore, and I cannot fathom the way my heart will break if I’m to live the rest of my life without him.
“Riptide! Ladies and gentlemen! Your victor, undefeated this season, leading the championship in the number one spot! RRRRRIP-TIIIIIDE!”
My heart swells in my chest, and it throbs, and I grab the computer and turn it to me, see his arm is raised as he catches his breath. He’s not smiling tonight. He’s somber and panting, staring at a spot in the crowd as if he’s lost in his thoughts.
“I love you so much . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m going to make you love me this hard too,” I whisper, caressing his face on the screen.
“You’re going to be a daddy, Rem!” Melanie squeals. “Your baby momma loves you so much!”
Remington turns his head to the ringmaster, and, with a nod, the announcer calls up someone else. My stomach tangles when I realize he’s going to keep fighting.
Melanie answers the phone and I forget to tell her not to.
“Riley! What . . . oh, she’s fine. Really? Well no, actually, she’s also not doing good either.” I close my eyes and look at my phone as they start talking about how badly we’re doing. “Yes, yes, I told her he’s coming over. Right after the fight? All right, she’ll be happy.”
She hangs up. “Remington just finished the fight and he wanted to know if you were all right, and Riley wanted to know how you’re doing since Remington isn’t doing so well. He wants you to know they’ll be in town soon.”
The frustration of being bedridden is enormous, but this added frustration of wanting to see him just boils me over. I can’t stand thinking that he will be here in Seattle fighting and that I won’t watch him fight.
Suddenly I grab my cordless telephone and start dialing.
“What are you doing? Who are you calling?” Mel asks.
“Dr. Trudy please? Brooke Dumas,” I say, then cover the speaker. “Melanie, I don’t care if he doesn’t want to see me. I want to see him and I’m GOING to see him, period.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You need to get me into the Underground.”
“I’VE ALWAYS WANTED to dress like an old chick since I saw Mrs. Doubtfire,” Melanie says as she pulls out the wigs we ordered off the Internet.
“Mel, I won’t get out of that wheelchair—tell me again nothing will go wrong?”
“Dude, you cajoled permission from your doctor. It will be fine. Remy won’t even know you went. We’re young, Brooke! Hello? YOLO. You only live once.” She huffs resolutely and goes to try on her floral “old chickie” dress.
“But I told the doctor I was visiting my boyfriend at his place,” I remind her.