Mine (20 page)

“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.

“That IS his place. The ring is Riptide’s lair. Plus, don’t underestimate the power of happiness. People heal better when they’re in their loved ones’ arms. The baby will love it, won’t you, you adorable little baby?” she coos stupidly down at my stomach.

Biting back a laugh, I shove her away, but she’s right, I’m pretty sure the baby will love it. Already I feel invigorated, and I don’t really think the baby has been having fun with me in my current sorry state. I am in love with a complicated man, and he makes me feel complicated feelings. I have run it over in my head a thousand times, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if he doesn’t want me there. I am going to go see my man. Period.

“What do you think?” I ask Melanie as I adjust my shoulder-length blond wig.

“Awesome. You look cheapish. Now let me paint you.” She smears a makeup cake on me while the prospect of seeing him makes my heart wham excitedly into my rib cage. “Mel, my pores are drowning.”

“Tut-tut! Hush! Now me.”

I eye myself in the mirror as she does her own face. “Okay, I look like a prostitute. They’re going to ask us how much we charge.”

“You ding-dong, we have to make you not look like you.”

“But you still look hotter! You’re a hot grandma—why can’t I be?”

“Because I’m the one who can still walk, and you’re the one in the chair.” She pushes me closer to the mirror and we look at ourselves in our floral dresses. Mel added a little cashmere sweater to hers and a flower to her gray-and-white wig, while my blond wig has an Alice-in-Wonderland black headband holding the hair in place.

I look completely unlike me, and if I added the big glasses we got, I would look even doubly less like me, but they’re so big and disturbing to wear, I tuck them into my dress pocket as we head out to the elevator. “I don’t want to distract him, all right? Remy can’t see that I’m there. He might get angry. I don’t even know what he’ll do—he’s too unpredictable. And we’ve never really fought without breaking up before, Mel.”

“My darling chicken, judging by the roses he’s sent, he wants to make up. And don’t you worry! I will have you back here in an instant, and in the meantime we’re getting you out of this GODDAMNED ROOM! Woo-hoo!”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER we discover that the Underground is not a handicap-friendly place. We learned this when Mel tried to get me out of the cab, then into the chair, then into the nightclub, down the elevator, and into the Underground. She’s huffing and puffing and telling me she doesn’t look all that cool anymore, “thanks to you, pregnant chick.”

I’d be laughing over how ridiculous she looks trying to get people to let us pass, but as we enter the crowded arena, it feels a little bit like coming home, and the mingled feelings of happiness and frustration over not being invited collide in me in a complicated little combo.

This
is where I met him. Where I lost my heart in one breath. Where he fucked my name. Where he kissed my lips. Where he took the ring by storm, before he took me.

After about a thousand “excuse me, sorry, coming through” notices, Melanie finally draws me up to our seats. I had to buy tickets with my own card and I splurged, so I got us front-row seats, although not exactly center. They’re good, and I’ll be able to devour every inch of my Riptide from up close. He’s not anxious to talk to me? Not anxious to see me? I’m dying for a mere glimpse.

“Remember to look the part of an older woman, Mel,” I whisper as the first fighters of the evening start pounding each other’s faces in.

“That woman keeps following us,” Melanie says worriedly and points behind us, but I can’t even turn. “She’s like a she-male. A little scary.”

I scan the area for Pete and see him, and right next to him, in the seat I usually occupy, is my sister Nora, grinning and flirting with him.

“Wow, Nora got Pete to get her a ticket?” Melanie says.

I don’t know why, but seeing someone, anyone, even my sister, in my seat, sparks a thousand snakes of jealousy awake in me, and I am angry all over again. Not angry. Furious all over again over Remington telling me I couldn’t come here.
Bastard.

Suddenly the ring is vacated and I think I see Riley starting to walk over to take his place near the corner of the ring, and my pulse skyrockets.

“The last time he came to this arena, he gave us a record knockout and chased after one of our very own. . . .” The voice through the speakers flares, and the women scream and my heart just heats as I remember the way he came after me. “You know who I’m talking about. The MAN you are HERE to SEE! Say hello to the one, the only, Remington Tate, youuuuuuur Riiiptiiiiide!!!!!!”

Melanie holds her breath, then murmurs, “Ohmifuckinggod, I see him.”

My pulse has shot up to the ceiling as I strain to see a flash of red, trotting toward the ring, but I can’t see anything from this stupid chair. “I can’t see him!” And god, I hate that everyone can see him but me.

“Dude, he’s coming to the ring! Some chicks are coming over, but he’s pushing through. He’s a god, Brooke. Oh my god . . .”

And then I see him at last, and my heart literally stops and my stomach immediately constricts with emotion.
I love him I hate him I love him.

He comes into my line of vision, a flash of red, and swings up into the ring, so lithe and muscled, so sleek and agile. The lights shine down on him as he gets rid of his red robe, and suddenly he’s there. So masculine and raw. Every woman’s fantasy and my
real.

I will never forget the way he looks in his boxing attire, every muscle of his ripped torso hard and cut, tanned and glistening. I will never forget the way he smiles for his crowd. I. Am.
Dying
. He looks amazing. Perfect. Radiating male strength and vitality. Like he’s been on a fucking beach and I’ve been in hell. It even feels like all the lights above rush down to kiss his suntanned skin. His rock-hard arms spread out, muscles taut as he starts slowly turning around. The arena almost trembles under my wheels—the screams are deafening.

“Fuck them over, Riptide!”
people scream behind me.

His dimples flash for them, his eyes glint for them. He looks so blatantly happy I want to hit him. In fact, I want to go up there and crush his mouth with mine
while
I hit him.

“Brooke, I feel like such a bad friend that I lust over your man, but please tell me you understand!” Melanie says anxiously.

I groan in disgust at myself. I have been abandoned, and here I am, chasing after him like some groupie. Lusting after him because he is mine.

MINE.

“And now, laaaadies and gentlemen, we welcome the Mother of All Monsters, Hector Hex, Herculeeeeeees!” the announcer cries, and Melanie mutters, “Hooooly shit.”

The moment the Mother of Monsters takes the ring, I swear I almost see the floor caving in with his weight. I’ve never seen this one before, but he looks even bigger than Butcher, and the knot in my stomach tightens tenfold. The new fighter looks like some sort of Paul Bunyan–enormous giant.