38. Remington

THIRTY-EIGHT

REMINGTON

"I don't even care anymore." Scarlet says, her pissed off laughter carrying from the living room to the kitchen. "No, actually I don't. I've done the math, Brady. Have you?" There's a beat of silence before she says, "Well let me enlighten you; even if I have to have your zero attached to my average, my overall grade in the class will still be well above passing. This may ruin my 4.0, but like I said, I don't care, because I'll take your ass down with me.

"So do your part of the project or don't. In fact, don't do it. We'll be going into full time clinicals in January and when you slip below a 3.5, Jennings will cut you and then I won't have to see your spiteful ass ever again."

Minus her stress creeping higher and higher the closer Scarlet gets to the end of the semester and the rising frequency of these shouted phone calls with Hendrix, the last week since our wedding has been better than I could've imagined. When she isn't so absorbed in studying for exams and writing and polishing her papers that she forgets to eat until I cut the Wi-Fi in order to force her out of the office, we're on each other even more than we were before. Being with her has been an addiction from the start, but now all it takes is a small whisper of "Husband" or "Wife," and everything is shoved aside as we tear at each other's clothes.

It's as if there's a new well with even more to explore, and we can't resist it. We're possessed by a need to be continuously within reach of the other, to remain connected in some way. Neither ever fully satiated in our intimacy, always craving more.

Most mornings when I wake up, it still feels surreal. It doesn't matter if her left hand is resting on my chest or my fingers are woven around hers and I see the rings I've given her prominently stacked on that important finger. I still exist in this haze where I can't believe it as truth until I see my own two-toned, brushed gold band on my hand, its presence new yet already familiar. And once the mist between dream and reality is lifted, I stir with the need to have my wife under me, over me, against me. To feel her, love her, get close to her, and become a part of her as deeply and irrevocably as she's burrowed herself into me.

I don't know if this is how it is for most newlyweds. Insatiable hunger and need for their spouse. Consumed by every little detail and experience. Hopelessly gone for the other with no desire to ever return. I can't imagine it is. I think the worshipful devotion I have for my wife is a spell uniquely crafted by her. She's bewitched and ensnared me, and in spite of being the one to command her body and pleasure, I kneel for her and her witchcraft, begging to never be released.

Grabbing our plates, I come to join her in the living room where the news is playing on mute while we wait for Carolina's football game to start. I don't follow a lot of football, or any sport outside of baseball really, but you'd have to be living under a rock to miss the buzz surrounding their stellar season led by Callum Cutter.

Since he was transitioned to first string after their starting quarterback suffered a compound fracture in his forearm in a car accident, they haven't lost a game. Nor have we missed one, my wife having turned into a bit of a fanatic when she found out he would be starting the rest of the season. And while I'm not a big fan of the sport, Scarlet keeps up with the careers of all the students she used to tutor, and I'm a fan of hers. So if Callum is playing, we're watching, though admittedly neither one of us fully knew what was going on when we first started.

She mouths, "Thank you," as I set her dinner down on the coffee table. Her sweet smile and perky Carolina blue bow adorning her ponytail are at odds with her attitude as she snaps, "You're probably right. Getting screwed six ways to Sunday every single day by my husband seems to have mellowed me out. Now fuck off asshole!" Hanging up with a feral roar, she throws her phone onto the armchair and begins pacing between the TV and the table, ponytail swishing back and forth. "UGH! I cannot stand him. I don't even know what the hell his problem is with me. He literally just waltzed into the auditorium and decided to make my life fucking hell all because of my last name."

Throwing up her arms, she turns on her heel and faces me as she shouts, "And you know what I really don't understand? Why he's even doing this. That's what I don't understand. Jesus, how can he not see that he's about to torpedo his career before it even starts?"

"Spiteful? Jealous? Possibly looking at getting cut anyway?"

"I wish," she huffs, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Brady's actually really smart. He's just lazy. Where I have to record every single lecture, take about a notebook's worth of notes, and pour over it all several times in addition to all the readings in order for the non-practical side to sink in, he can hear it or read it once and have perfect recall. Any professional team would be lucky to have that douche canoe on their payroll. Hell, we'd be lucky to have him—and my God do those words taste like vinegar."

Setting my plate aside, I coax, "Come here, baby," slouching down on the couch.

The drop of her shoulders and the crumpling of her posture releases the last of her anger. She approaches with a slow shuffle, collapsing onto me the moment she's close enough. With a bounce of my hips, I scoot her into a more comfortable spot and cup the back of her head as she hides her face into my neck.

"You know, I actually hate school," she confesses with a shuddering breath. "I mean, I love learning, but the rest of it, it's exhausting and isolating. I can't wait to be done with it. Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth it. If I wouldn't be just as happy managing my brand and endorsements, taking on a few more charities, and letting you fill me with babies."

The words to refute and bolster her are on the tip of my tongue when the news story on screen catches my attention. "Scar," I murmur, my chest growing painfully tight as I read and re-read the headline.

"I know," she sighs, completely distracted from my slipping attention. "It's just the stress talking but… would it be so bad if maybe we?—"

"What brand is your birth control?"

Pulling back, her head tilts to the side in puzzlement as she says, "Um… that's random."

It doesn't matter how many times I read the headline or its caption, my mind isn't comprehending the words. In fact, it's outright refusing to believe them. So much so, I think I hear myself say, "No," as if my denial will change anything.

She takes her pill every single night without fail. Some nights we're off by a few hours but she never lapses for more than two or three. So this can't be possible. She has to be one of the ones unaffected. I mean surely we would've noticed if her birth control was no longer effective. Wouldn't something have changed in her cycle?

I've nearly managed to convince myself that we haven't caused irreparable harm to her career aspirations when I hear, "REMINGTON!" Scarlet's voice loud and sharp like a slap to the face. She physically shakes me to draw my attention to her searching eyes, her chest rising and falling as she tries to keep calm.

"Remington?" she repeats, her voice steady but soft and laced with concern when I look at her.

Fuck. I've been so absorbed in poking holes in the news story, I completely checked out on her. Cupping her face, I kiss her quickly and promise, "Don't worry, baby girl; we'll be fine."

"Don't worry? How can you expect me to not worry?" she cries, pressing two fingers to the pulse in my neck while grabbing my watch. Shaking her head, she shoves the health read out in front of my face and says, "Do you see this? You just had a tachycardia episode! And unless you've somehow managed to keep a heart condition hidden from us for eight seasons, this is cause to panic!"

"Tachycardia? What's that?"

"It's when you have an inexplicable spike in your heart rate. We train you between 95 and 135 beats per minute and you just hit 156 while at rest and were unresponsive for nearly five minutes," she explains shortly, dropping her phone beside me where it begins to ring, fingers returning to my pulse.

"Hey Scarlet, how's it?—"

"Jennings?" she cries, snatching her phone. "Thank God, I don't know what to do and Dr. Watson didn't answer."

I try to get up as she starts to pace, her hand fanning herself as she gasps for breath only for her to push me back down. "Sit. I don't know what's going on and you're freaking me out, so just… sit."

The change in his voice is immediate, when he asks, "What happened?" It's the same tone he uses when he has to come out to the field and begin immediately assessing a potential injury. Calm, smooth, detached, analytical, and it seems to be exactly what Scarlet needs as the tremble in her hands begins to abate.

"I don't know. We were talking. I was in his lap complaining about Brady and school, and then all of a sudden his breathing was shallow, he was sweating, and then his watch started shooting off notifications about his heart rate. I know it's not a heart attack but could it be delayed complications from surgery? Should I take him to the hospital? I should take him to the ER, yeah? Maybe an urgent care?"

"Scarlet, breathe ," Jennings instructs. "You're no help if you panic."

Sucking in a breath, she nods, "Right, sorry, I just…" looking at me, her lip trembles, a tear slipping down her cheek as she whispers, "he's my husband…"

"I had wondered if you would be able to detach with Remington. We'll have to sort this out ahead of Spring Training," Jennings offhandedly notes. Louder he says, "Remington, how are you feeling right now?"

"Confused," I answer honestly. "I don't understand why y'all are focused on me. It's Scar we need to… need too…" then I feel it. The same pressure in my chest that happened right before everything else Scarlet said occurred.

"Jennings, it's happening again!" she shouts, coming to kneel between my legs, my suddenly hot and sweaty hands clasped between hers.

"Remington, can you hear me?"

His question sounds as if it's coming through water, distorted and slow, but I can hear him so I nod.

"He's nodding his head," Scarlet relays, her fingers slow, or possibly my vision is slow, as she taps on her phone before bringing the camera up to me.

I briefly see him studying me through the screen before I close my eyes and let my head fall back on the couch, my hands beginning to twitch. I don't understand why they seem to be so calm about the situation at hand. My wife could be fucking pregnant and all they seem to want to talk about is my goddamn heart rate.

Since I can't get a word in edgewise unless it's a direct answer to one of their questions, I hook my hands under Scar's arms and lift her up off the floor. Gently depositing her on the couch, I grab the remote and point it at the TV that's begun playing the NFL pregame show. Hitting the rewind button, I back track to the news. When I reach the start of the headline, I unmute the TV and turn to face her and Jennings.

"Isn't that your birth control brand?"

"Oh my God…" she breathes, standing up and coming over to me as the announcers talk about the nationwide recall that has gone into effect in light of reports that confirm at least two lots were distributed with tainted progestin, virtually making them ineffective.

Stumbling, she goes to sit back on the couch only to sink to the floor, her hand batting around for her phone until we hear the video call with Jennings disconnect. She has me play the news story back twice more, her face alarmingly empty of all expression as the information sinks in.

When the story concludes again, Scarlet looks up at me, her mouth opening and closing without sound several times before she whispers, "I can't… I don't want to know yet," her voice cracking at the end as she wrings her hands in her lap, her teeth painfully sinking into her lip until I pull it free.

"Okay, baby, we'll wait," I soothe, lowering to the floor with her, my knees up and around her, cocooning her in my embrace as the delayed pregame show hums in the background.

Lips to the crown of her head, my eyes squeeze shut against the trickle of hope that warms in my chest. For all our indulgence and play, we agreed now wasn't the time to have a baby. But try telling that to my selfish heart. The damn thing is fighting like hell to hold on to the possibility while my mind puts up a valiant but failing effort in squashing it.