He clamps his jaw and grits his teeth, “Little firecracker, wanting it doesn’t mean it’s right. I’m f**king worthless for anything but fighting.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a great fighter, but that’s not what makes you YOU. Remy, don’t you see how inspiring you are? You’re honest, driven, passionate, fierce, and tender. You protect and provide without any expectations. I’ve never heard you judge people, criticize. You live your own life by your own rules and do your best to protect those who surround you. You love even harder than you fight, and I’ve never seen anyone fight like you. Nobody taught you how to be like you—it’s just you. Any shape you come in, you are the only father I would have ever wanted for my children, and the only man I will ever love. Let those two go. They biologically made you, but they. Did. Not. Make. You.”
He absorbs my words, and as he thinks about them, I grab the back of his head and pull him down so I can kiss those beautiful lips, and stop them from saying any more hurtful things about himself.
His mouth, hard at first, softens under my pressure, until I feel the tension in him ease as he tongues me back and murmurs against my lips, “You’re blinded because you’re mine.”
“No. I see you because I’m yours.”
He eases back to search my expression, his gaze shining protectively on me, I know he will do anything to protect me and our baby.
“They don’t agree with my choice. Are you all right with it?” he asks me.
God, I’m all right with anything he does, that’s how much I trust, respect, and love him. I know he’s asking about his choice to use natural means to control his illness. It probably takes him double the effort that it would take him to medicate; it takes discipline and an entire lifestyle devoted to his well-being, and, frankly, it’s not like he’s making a political stand out of the issue. It’s his life and he’s trying to live it, and I want to live mine with him. Everyone who has ever been sick or has ever been on medication long-term knows that when you fix one thing chemically in your body, you give something else up. Look at the list of side effects. There is no magic pill for health.
We are works in progress, and health is not a static place. It is a goal that is always moving and needs to be chased, daily, and forever. Remington will always fight this fight . . . and I will always fight it with him.
“I’m okay with your choice, Remy,” I say to him, holding his gaze so he knows that I mean it.
The smile that appears on his face is oh so tender. “We’re going to have a little someone who depends on us. You have to tell me if it’s too much for you, Brooke.”
“I’ll let you know,” I agree.
He takes my little hand in his big, callused one, and we both watch our hands as we interlace our fingers. “Then give me your word you’ll tell me if I ever get out of hand and you’d like me to medicate, and I give you my word I’ll do it the instant you ask me to.”
“Remington, I give you my word,” I say, squeezing his hand.
“And I give you mine.” He tugs me closer and wraps me in his arms, and I slide right in, absorbing his strong, protective embrace as he spreads his fingers on my round stomach and ducks his head over my shoulder to look at the swell. “I will protect you until I die,” he whispers against the back of my ear. “Nothing will ever hurt you two. If she’s like me, I’m going to hold her up like they never did. I’m going to show her she can still thrive. It’s still worth it.”
I’m completely melted as I turn my head to bury my nose in his sweaty chest, not wanting to be anywhere else. “It’s going to be a he. And he’s got this. Like you do.”
EIGHTEEN
BLACK
They triggered him. His parents. They’ve ignored him his whole life, and the times they come see him, all they do is hurt him. It didn’t take but a couple of hours after their visit in Austin for Remy to go full-blown black.
I know it was thanks to them. Pete knows it. Riley knows it. Coach and Diane, they know it too.
The morning after their visit, he could barely get out of bed, and it’s been like this for days now. Remy is down and out. It hurts to see him like this so much, I feel as if I’m getting kicked in the stomach, daily.
“He up yet?” Pete asks me from the living room today. The team is scattered across the couches as they watch me close the door of the master bedroom behind me. I shake my head in despair. Remy has sunken down so far, he is completely closed off like I have never, ever seen him.
He barely looks directly at me. He barely eats. He barely talks. He is in a bad, bad mood, but he seems to be fighting not to take it out on anyone, and therefore, he says nothing, absolutely nothing at all. All I can see of his inner struggle is those fists of his, curling and uncurling, curling and uncurling, as he fixes his gaze on a spot and keeps it there, for minutes and minutes and minutes, as if whatever he sees is inside him.