The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(69)

Me: I’m just having a crappy day.

Elliot: What about this weekend? Are you going out? I know Madison has been dragging you out into public.

Me: She has been, but nothing exciting. The usual crowd. She gets irritated with me because I’m boring, LOL. I just never want a repeat of the night you had to carry me home.



And now that I’m an unwed, single, expectant mother, it’s never going to happen. Ever.



Elliot: But that turned out okay, didn’t it?

Me: Sure it did. Look at us now—friends and all that.



I change the subject; my hormones cannot handle where this conversation could possibly be headed, talking about how we’ve remained close during the past weeks, though he’s all the way across Lake Michigan.



Me: What about you—are you doing anything this weekend?

Elliot: Probably. I’ve actually been hanging out with a few people from the medical program. We grab beer a few nights a week.

Me: Yeah?

Elliot: Yeah. There’s this one girl who reminds me of you. Her dad is actually a professor here. I posted a picture on IG when we went out last night.



My stomach drops, the thought of him getting emotionally involved with someone new making me ill. I’m queasier than I’ve felt all day.

My hands fly to my stomach.



Me: I haven’t looked.

Elliot: I hope you’re doing well, Anabelle.



Doing well.



Me: I am. Same to you.

Elliot: I should shut my phone off. This term paper isn’t going to write itself.

Me: Talk to you later. Good luck with your paper.



In the bathroom, I strip down and remove all my clothes, standing in front of the mirror for the second time today, eyes trailing down my naked body, looking for any signs that there’s a baby growing inside me.

I cup my boobs, but they aren’t tender and don’t appear—or feel—any bigger. My hips look the same—slender.

Still…

A baby.

Elliot and I made a baby.

The harder I stare at my body, the more impactful the word baby becomes. I’m alone, standing in a cold bathroom, barefoot and pregnant.

I lift a hand to cover my mouth, muffling the sob rising from my throat. Then, the other palm covers my eyes, my face.

Wracking sobs of guilt taking over my entire tired body. Wet tears coming by the bucket-full, streaming down my face.

“What am I going to do?” I whisper, crying into my hands.

What am I going to tell him? What am I going to say?

He’s nearly a seven-hour car ride away with two years of schooling to go, paid for by hard work and long dedicated hours.

A flutter in my stomach has me pausing.

There it goes again.

I should be showing by now, the ultrasound technician said. I should have a baby bump.

Pulling Madison’s pink robe off the hook on the back of the door, I slide into its fuzzy comfort, tying the belt before opening the door. Padding to my bedroom and crawling into my big, empty bed.

Elliot’s bed.

His.

Then mine.

I close my weary eyes, imagining what I’ll say when I see him—it has to be in person. This cannot be done over the phone, and he’s not likely to be home before the holidays.

Three more months.

An eternity.





Anabelle



“Sup Anabelle Donnelly. No offense, but you look like shit.”

I recognize that voice.

Glance up to see Rex Gunderson walking up the aisle toward me and groan—he is the last person I want walking into my class, the last person I want to spend another entire semester with.

Thanks, karma, for piling more crap onto my already shitty day.

“What are you doing in this class, Rex? I thought I’d gotten rid of you.”

His grin is mischievous. “I’m like a fungus—that’s why they call me a fun guy.”

“I would bet no one has ever called you that.”

He laughs good-naturedly, gesturing toward the seat beside me. “Mind if I sit here?”

“You really want to?” Is this guy a sadist? “There are plenty of open seats.”

We haven’t spoken since that night in the stadium, the night where I humiliated him in front of the entire wrestling team, my father, and the coaching staff, when I was the driving force behind him getting fired from his management position.

“We social pariahs can’t be too choosy these days,” he jokes, plunking his bag down.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize—my knee-jerk reaction as a kind and caring human being—but I stop myself because I’m not sorry.

He didn’t deserve to have the position he held when he abused it, and it was about time he was removed.

“How’s life treating you otherwise?” I ask, genuinely curious, sincerely wanting to know how someone moves on after spending three years of their life committed to the same team.

“Boring as fuck.”

“What about Johnson?”

“He’s gone. Went back home, transferred to a community college.”

“Why?”

“He was here on a partial athletic scholarship and out-of-state tuition is fucking expensive, so when he got suspended, his parents made him move home.” Rex shrugs.