The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(71)

Oh God.

I almost said, about the baby.

What am I going to tell my parents?

My dad is going to lose his mind and my mother is going to blame my father, and the entire thing is going to be an utter disaster.

And I’ll have to do it alone.

“Earth to Anabelle.”

I look up, not realizing I’ve just been staring into space, into my half-empty mug.

“Huh?”

“You looked lost there for a second.”

“That’s because I am.”

Rex sits back in the booth, reclining back on the navy blue seat, crossing his arms. “What’s going on with you? I don’t remember you being like this last year.”

“Like what?”

He waves a hand around in front of him, at me. “You’re so preoccupied. I know you hate my guts, but—”

“I don’t hate your guts, Rex. I’m just…” I inhale, taking a deep breath. “I found out some news this week that I’m preoccupied with. Sorry, it’s nothing personal.”

One of his sandy brown brows goes up. “What kind of news?”

“I’d rather…it’s private.”

Shit, why did I say that?

“Why?” He laughs. “Are you pregnant?”

I don’t laugh.

And I don’t answer.

I stare back at him, wide-eyed, worst poker face in the history of trying to keep secrets.

“Holy shit, Anabelle.” He breathes heavily. “Are you?”

I have nothing to say.

Which is enough.

“Jesus. I don’t know what to say,” he says. “I was just joking.”

I toy with the handle of my mug, scoffing. “Yeah, well.”

We sit silently in that booth for the next ten minutes, only the sounds of the café keeping us company. Waitresses collecting mugs and saucers, the door opening and closing. The music. The chatter. Even the clanking of the dishes piling up in the kitchen can be heard. The sound of the coffee grinder.

“I can’t believe you came out in public.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just meant, if I was a chick, I’d be balled up in the corner of my room, crying.”

“Believe me, I’ve had that pity party already.”

“When did you find out?”

“This week.”

“Wow.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Does the father know?”

“No. Not yet.”

He nods slowly, accepting this answer and not probing for a name.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Shit, and here I was blabbing away about engagement parties and how shitty my summer was. At least I haven’t knocked anyone up.”

His crude honesty puts a goofy smile on my face. “It’s okay. Your babble takes my mind off it.”

“Well, it’s not the worst thing to happen.”

I gape at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, a fucking baby? Babies are the shit, dude. I can’t wait to have one.”

My brow goes up. “You wouldn’t be upset if you found out some girl you were sleeping with was pregnant?”

He shakes his head. “I doubt it. Maybe at first I’d be like What the fuck, dude! because I’d be shocked, but after I thought about it, I’d probably be chill. It’s not like we’re in high school anymore, Anabelle. We’re old enough to procreate and successfully keep a human alive.”

That’s true.

I’m twenty-one years old and a senior in college, and Elliot is…

How old is Elliot? I don’t think we’ve ever talked about it.

I quietly do the math.

If he graduated at eighteen, spent four years doing undergrad, that would make him…holy crap, Elliot is almost twenty-three? Can that be right?

“What are you so worried about?”

“Everything,” I answer honestly.

How is Rex Gunderson not absolutely appalled by discussing this?

“Are you more worried about how people are going to react, or are you worried about actually having a baby?”

I’m deafened by my own silence.

His hands fold on the tabletop. “Okay, let me ask you this: are you worried the baby’s dad is going to freak out and disappear on you?”

I consider the question: am I concerned Elliot is going to ghost me when he finds out I’m expecting a child?

“Not really.”

“Are you worried your parents are going to disown you?”

I snort. “They’d never do that.”

“Are you scared you’re going to be cast out into the street, cold and alone, and you and your baby are going to starve?”

“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“No I’m not, Anabelle—these are legitimate concerns people have.”

“How would you know?”

“Haven’t you ever watched Teen Mom?”

“I’m not a teen mom!” I shout indignantly.

“My point exactly.” He pops a stick of gum, chomping down on it. “So what the hell are you freaking out about?”

“I never said I was freaking out.”