The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(66)

If you were here, I would have taken you. I wore a dark burgundy cocktail dress and heels. Lips were red. Madison put my hair in an up-do, so it was all very ooh-la-la, so fancy.

I don’t know what else to say without spilling my guts and making this awkward, and we’re both about to start school, but I will tell you this. If I close my eyes, I can see you standing shirtless in the kitchen, your skin tan from playing soccer with no shirt on.

Of course, this is the wine talking.

In the light of day, I’m strong and moving on, just like all the greatest love songs say to do.

It’s too bad I’ve taken them all off of repeat.

Love,

Anabelle.





Saturday, August 23rd



Anabelle,



Stop talking about me like I’m a ghost. I’m not dead, I’m in Michigan. I’ve read and reread your notes at least thirty times and decided to level the sobriety playing field, I’d do a few Jagerbombs before typing this message.

If you think Iowa is boring, you should come to Michigan. I hear they get buried in snow in winter, and the population here is a bustling 120k. It’s not even September and I’m already freezing my balls off.

I texted Dev and told him to stop staring at your ass and find someone new to lust after. He didn’t seem fazed and I know he enjoys riling me up, the fucking dickhead. He said you went and ordered a new pair of socks to cover your shin guards, yellow and blue stripes. Bet they’re adorable—you have the sexiest legs.

Dev was bragging about you, said they switched your position and tried playing you at forward. Why didn’t you tell me you scored two goals?

Class officially begins on the 25th—two more days—but I’ve got the syllabus for my classes printed out and have been prepping for the course load. Such a fucking nerd, I swear.

My internship is great. As you know, I’m working with the football players and their team of trainers and therapists. If everything goes well, I’m hoping they’ll offer me a permanent position once I get my degree. Then again, it’s Michigan and it’s fucking cold, so we’ll see if I can hack it in winter.

I love you, Anabelle. You are undoubtedly one of my best friends, and I think about you every second of every damn day.





Anabelle



I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, angling my head from left to right, studying myself. My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are bright, but something isn’t quite right.

Hmm.

I lean forward, pulling down on my lower lids with my forefingers, checking my irises. Pat at my cheeks. Run a hand down the front column of my throat, poking at my collarbone.

Hmm.

“Hey, you almost done in here? I was going to freshen up my face.” Madison sticks her head through the bathroom door, giving me a thorough once-over. She’s done up and downright adorable. “You look pale—are you feeling all right?”

I frown at my reflection. “I look pale? Really? I thought I looked rather flushed.” I suck in my cheeks, grimacing at my fish face.

“Nope, you’re definitely pale.” Our eyes connect in the mirror and I can see that she’s raised her brows. “You don’t think you’re getting sick, do you? Three people in my econ class had the flu last week.”

“No…maybe? I’m just off. Everything is…off lately.”

“Do you think it’s depression? I know you miss Elliot, but it’s not like you were in love with him.”

She’s wrong; I was in love with him, and I want to point out that sometimes suffering through a love you never had is worse than suffering through one you did. Everything with Elliot and me was left unfulfilled.

“Anabelle, you had the entire summer to get over him and move on. It’s been more than two months.”

Three.

It’s been almost three months of summer break and I still miss him like crazy. Our letters back and forth mean nothing if he’s not here. They’re a weak replacement.

“I know, Madison, but it’s just not the same.”

“It doesn’t help that you’re sleeping in his damn bedroom.” She’s mentioned this a few times as cause for my melancholy. “You wanna switch?”

“Please, I wasn’t born yesterday,” I tease. “You just want the queen-sized bed.”

“True. The twin bed sucks—I can’t bring anyone home because it’s way too small to get laid in safely. Last weekend when you were having dinner at your dad’s, I brought a random home and he fell off the side while he was going down on me. It was so embarrassing.”

The visual of that makes me giggle. “I mean, he was already down on the floor, on his knees—couldn’t he just have kept going?”

She rights herself against the doorframe. “Dammit, you’re right! He totally could have!” Crosses her arms. “Shit, now I feel robbed of an orgasm.”

“He didn’t get you off after that?”

“No. He kept complaining about the bed.”

“Did he invite you back to his place?”

Madison makes a face. “For real? Like I’d screw him at the fraternity house. Gross, no. Nothing against those guys, but the Pi house is disgusting—no one cleans it.”