The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(28)

Dad: You’re telling me you were so drunk you couldn’t even text your father? What the hell is wrong with you? Have you gone and lost all your common sense?



I take a deep breath and pray for patience.



Me: Dad. I stayed with a friend. It was the best decision last night.

Dad: You should have called me to come pick you up.



I almost type It’s bad enough that I live with my parents but delete it, instead sending him a terse: I appreciate that Dad, but if I’m going to make friends and fit in here, I can’t be calling you to bail me out. I’m not a kid.



A few moments go by before he replies.



Dad: Fair enough.

Dad: When can we expect you home? Linda is making potato salad for lunch and I have to be at the gym for a two-a-dayer.



I sigh. He’s never going to get it.



Me: Tell Linda not to wait, I don’t know when I’ll be home. I’m probably going to stick around town for lunch, grab a coffee. I’ll be back in a few hours, definitely for dinner.



Elliot is watching me but pretending not to, his eyes roaming my face, interested in my expressions as I frantically reply to my dad’s text messages.

I finally set the phone on the table, face down.

Sigh.

“I really should get going.”

“You need a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll catch an Uber.”

“Anabelle, it’s no big deal.”

I reach out, covering his hand with mine. Pull back when his skin sizzles. “I know, but you’ve done enough, gone above and beyond already.” I would die of mortification if he did me one more favor. “I appreciate you helping me, coming to my rescue. I probably won’t ever forget it.”

He demurs. “Don’t worry about it.”

I rise. “All right, well…thanks.” Palm my phone, scrolling through the few apps I have downloaded for transportation, choose one, and click for a ride. “There’s a car less than two minutes away. It’s supposed to be nice today, so I’ll wait outside if you don’t mind.”

He nods as I smooth a hand down my frizzy hair self-consciously.

“Bye Elliot.” I give him a wave, despite the fact that I haven’t left his kitchen. “See you around.”

“See ya. Take care, Donnelly.”

I grin, biting down on my bottom lip. “You, too, Saint Elliot.”





Anabelle



“Anabelle, hey.”

I hear his voice before I see him, sitting at the table I’ve been occupying on the sixth floor, the one I apparently stole from him and have now happily surrendered as a thank you.

“Hey to you, too, stranger.”

I haven’t seen him since that morning in his kitchen, but I’ve thought of him every day. He’s a sight for sore eyes, spread out at that corner table, the entire surface a mess of books, laptop, and pens.

“You just get here?” he asks politely.

“Yeah. Thought I’d check to see if this spot was taken.”

“Have a seat.”

“Gosh no, I’d hate to interrupt. You were in the middle of something.”

“Big deal. There’s plenty of room.” The chair across from him shoots out, his foot propped on the seat. “More than that shitty desk over there.”

“Okay. All right.” I set my bag down on a different chair and he removes his feet, sitting up taller.

“How have you been?”

“Good. How ’bout you?”

Elliot slides down in his seat, slouching against the back, legs spread. “Same shit, different day. You know how it is.”

“That good, eh?”

It doesn’t take long for me to settle in, for us to quietly begin working on our own tasks, comfortable with the companionship. It’s not necessary to fill the void with words or chatter; it’s nice being in his presence.

Every so often we exchange glances—friendly smiles—but work in peaceful silence.

My phone vibrates.

Vibrates again.

When I finally flip it over, I see it’s a text from my dad, asking if I plan on being around tonight to watch his favorite series on cable.

My groan is louder than I intend.

“I have got to get out of that house,” I mutter, plopping my phone face down with an irritated huff so I can’t see the screen light up again.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Yes. My father is driving me nuts.”

Elliot’s brow rises.

“I don’t know if I told you this, but since I transferred, I’ve been living with my dad and stepmom. They’re both great, but…”

“But you’re living with your dad and stepmom?”

I laugh. “Exactly.” Sigh. “I love them to death, obviously, but they’ve completely forgotten that I’m twenty-one years old and not fifteen.”

“When I go home to visit my folks, my mom still tells me to hit the sack at ten o’clock. Then she’ll come in my room to turn off my light if I’m up reading too late. It’s so obnoxious.”

“That is my life. Every. Single. Day.” I want to bang my head on the table repeatedly.