The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(38)

“Uh, that must be a girl thing, cause I wouldn’t really give a shit. I’ve showered with a room full of guys.”

“Oh, good point.”

I swivel toward her in my chair, tossing my pencil on the flat surface of my desk. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to come in and apologize again for what happened earlier with my dad. I know it was a real shitty situation to put you in.”

“Not gonna lie, Anabelle, it was fucking awkward. I felt like a ten-year-old being scolded, and I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

I look at her now, standing near the door, her long hair dry, hanging in loose waves. Eyes bright and alert and lined in black. Concerned—for me. She inches closer, dressed in jeans and an Iowa sweatshirt, feet bare. I can’t help fixating on her toes, the long length of her legs, the pretty sight of her pink glossy lips.

Guilty, I glance away, staring up at the trophies lining my wall on a shelf my dad helped me build at the beginning of the year when I moved all my shit into this dump.

Anabelle closes the space between us, inviting herself farther into my room, perching on the edge of my bed, making herself comfortable like we’re familiar, like we’ve chatted like this a million times before.

“Are you going somewhere tonight?” I ask curiously, changing the subject.

“Yes, just for a little bit.” She leans back, resting with her elbows on my quilt, swinging her legs off the end of my bed. “I met this girl in one of my classes and we really hit it off. She just texted me and thought we could meet up and have a coffee or something.”

Coffee at night? Anabelle is going to be flying off the walls later.

She reads my mind. “Don’t worry, I’ll drink hot chocolate or something. She just wants to talk—I don’t think she has many friends, either.”

“Which class?”

“It’s one of the science classes I needed to fulfill a gen-ed requirement—biology. She’s actually one of the TAs.”

“This isn’t going to be a repeat of the night I brought you home that first time, is it?”

Anabelle groans. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up, and no, it’s not going to be a repeat because we are just going to sit and talk at a coffee shop.”

“Whatever, it’s none of my business.”

My roommate leans over, patting my leg. “Yeah, sure it isn’t.”

“For real. It’s none of my business.”

“Oh come on—you don’t take an active interest in what I do? Don’t lie, we spend all our time together.”

That’s true. We have been spending a lot of time together. “Fine. Maybe I do give a shit about what you do, but only because I care and want you to be safe.”

“Right, only because you want me to be safe.”

Anabelle stares me down, blue eyes boring into me at the end of the bed, biting back a smile, wanting to say something else. I can see it in the way she’s worrying her bottom lip, in her eyes—the twinkle in them.

But she doesn’t just blurt out whatever she’s thinking.

I admire that about her, the fact that she doesn’t just say what’s on her mind, that she knows when and how much to say. She’s not nosy and she’s not overly tenacious; that in itself makes me want to tell her things I wouldn’t share with anyone else.

“Anyway, I should go. I just wanted to pop in and tell you again how sorry I am for what happened when my dad was here, but you understand why I didn’t tell him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I really wanted to live here and I didn’t want him to try to stop me. He would have had no problem with a female, which is dumb because living with girls has been nothing but drama. This has been like a vacation.” She pauses. “Well, except for tonight. That was embarrassing.”

“It’s fine. It’s over.” And hopefully he won’t be back to give us a hard time, because I really don’t want her moving out, either.

I like having her here.

The house wouldn’t be the same without her.

It certainly wouldn’t smell as good.

“No more drama, I promise.”





Anabelle



I beat Rex Gunderson to class.

Unfortunately, there are far too many open seats available, including two on each side of me, presenting him with the perfect opportunity for him to plop down next to me when he finally gets here.

I’m seated halfway up, in a middle row, a bird’s eye view when he strolls through the door at the front of the room.

He’s wearing a different version of the same outfit I’ve seen him in every class: khakis, an embroidered Iowa wrestling polo, brown belt, tennis shoes. If he’s trying to look the part of a team manager, he’s certainly doing a bang-up job.

Rex reaches my row, shimmying his way down the aisle until he’s pulling a desk next to me, inching it closer, close enough that I can smell a heavy-handed dose of aftershave and notice the hairs on his chin he missed while shaving.

He’s still wet from his shower, shaggy dark hair falling in damp, sloppy strings.

“Hey. Thanks for saving me a seat.” He yawns.

“I wasn’t saving you a seat.”