Page 36 of Sideline Play

Then as afternoon turned into evening, his faded country accent having grown thicker, his speech lazier, the longer he talked, he showed me the hidden TV in the mirror above his dresser. Shoving his shoulder, I had playfully admonished himfor hiding it from me to which he simply asked, “How else was I gonna get you to spend every night on the couch with me?” This earned him another heated session of us kissing with me straddled over his lap, his candor intoxicating.

After, it was dinner in bed, followed by him feeding me my dense cupcakes. More movies, more kissing, more cuddling, more hands wandering but never drifting from the silently agreed upon safety zones.

Despite what I had shared, it ended up being a perfect day. One that, as I started to fall asleep curled against him, had me wishing for a hundred thousand more just like it. Provided he could look past the rest of the story, Roman’s violence, the ensuing speculations that still get dragged out whenever I do anythingscandalous,and what I did in the aftermath of it all.

The peace of our day unsurprisingly didn’t follow me into sleep. The shadows had crept in and I had invited them to stay—my mind still open and vulnerable after speaking about the past.

A phantom sensation of a hand keeping my face pushed to the side as another crawls down my stomach has me startling awake with a scream lodged in my throat. Sweat mists my skin, my stomach rolls with the threat of being sick, my breath short and sharp, my eyes darting around the dark room as I search for something to begin grounding myself with.

It’s faint but it’s there, the eucalyptus and rosemary of Remington’s soap and a lingering trace of vanilla buttercream. I push through my racing heart and short breath to breathe it in, the scent of home, safety.

One… two… three… exhale.

Repeat, longer.

I’m not there; he’s not here. It’s just a dream. A memory.

Closing my eyes, I slowly lower myself back down, only to spring up when I start to feel the walls move. They’re pushing inon me, trapping me, holding me prisoner. I can’t get out of bed fast enough.

Stumbling to the balcony, I wrench the door open and the moment my feet cross the threshold, I suck in a ragged breath. I don’t stop until I’m at the glass railing, feeling the cool, crisp air on my skin. Curling my fingers over the top, I sink into a squat, a tear dropping to my knees.

This is what I’m afraid of. Moving forward only to be wrenched back, that things will always be like this. The memories watching and waiting to drag me back down.

How long can I expect Remington to put up with this? As it is, I’m already a lot of work. High maintenance being used disparagingly by others but an apt description nonetheless. This, however—if this is to be what happens when I reach for sexual intimacy, it’s too much. I can’t ask him to stick everything else out and this too.

“You’re not asking though,” he says, the surprise of his presence being that it didn’t startle me. “And you won’t have to. I’m choosing to, as you say, ‘stick it out.’”

Turning to get a glimpse of him around my shoulder, I don’t even comment on the fact that I was unknowingly talking to myself. Instead, I let out a short, humorless chuckle as I demand, “Why? This can’t be how you pictured being with me and let’s be honest, Remi, you could easily find someone with a lot less baggage.”

“You’re probably right,” he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, shorts low on his hips and shirt stretching tight over his chest as he crosses his arms. “But I’ve done easy, and I don’t want that. I want the feeling of counting down the minutes until I see you again, the way my breath catches whenever you walk into a room, the burning possession I feel when I have you close, the unquestionable certainty that this is exactly where I belong and you are exactly who I’m supposed to be with. I told you,things feelrightwhen I’m with you. So good, bad, ugly, I want it all and I want it with you, on your own time, at your own pace.”

Righting himself, he says, “Now be a good girl for me and get on the daybed. I’m going to turn the outside heaters on and grab the duvet because your goosebumps have goosebumps, and I’m pretty sure it’s so cold out here my balls will need to be surgically retrieved.”

Barking out a laugh, I do as he says and walk down the balcony to the daybed in the corner. Plopping myself in the center, I look up at the star littered sky and am once again washed in the sense of feeling at home. Because beneath the worry I feel, Remi is right. I don’t want easy. I don’t want to stay like this. I would rather sludge through this with him, open up old wounds and secrets, and keep him and the way he makes me feel than stay comfortable and lose him and what we’re beginning to build.

When he comes back, it’s with the king size duvet wrapped around him like a python and Winnie wearing her pink puffer vest, trotting at his side.

“You dressed Winnie.”

Briefly glancing down at her, he says, “Well yeah, couldn’t risk the baby freezing.” Dropping the duvet on the daybed, he uncovers a worn Middle Tennessee baseball sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants, handing them to me, explaining, “Extra layers. Can’t have either of my girls freezing while we camp outside.”

Pulling the sweatshirt with his name and collegiate number across the back on, I bring the collar to my nose in search of his scent, quietly commenting, “Your girls?”

“If you want to be,” he casually throws out, before pointing at the sweats and ordering, “On.”

Drowning in his clothes, I meet his moon illuminated eyes and answer, “I want.”

“Then you are.”

“That was easy,” I smile as he gets in behind me, Winnie propping only her front paws up, prompting me to lift her butt the rest of the way.

Once situated, me between Remington’s legs and Winnie half burrowed between the daybed’s back and his side, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder as his arms circle around me under the blanket, he responds, “I don’t play games, Scar. You will always know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, what I want. I want you to be mine, and if you want me as yours, then for me, that’s the end of it.” Pulling me in closer and leaning back against the pillows, he murmurs, “Now tell me, baby girl, what do you need right now?”

Closing my eyes, I lean my head on his, taking another moment to ground myself in the present. Immediately I’m rushed with his scent, a blanket of calm following. Under that, I can smell Winnie—both the mist of her coat refresh and her unique doggie odor that tells me a trip to the puppy spa is imminent. Breathing even deeper, I pick out the crisp air, the earthy fragrance of changing leaves, and the sap of pine. Letting it all out, I begin again.

“I’m not stupid. I know what people think when they look at me. Blonde hair, dresses and heels, lots of pink, an overpriced car, and Daddy’s credit card. I guess I just didn’t think Castor lumped me in with that since we spent so much time together and I regularly out scored him in class.

“For our first date, I wore this frilly little skirt with ballet pink rosebuds all over it and a matching pink sweater that hung off my shoulder and, because we were going to one of the fall festivals, these thick heeled boots the color of whisky that came up over my knee.”

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