The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(73)

He’s also turning into an amazing friend, Elliot. We talk all the time and go to the café a lot. Last week we went for pedicures—he said it was practice for when my feet start to swell up. He’s such a nag, always on me about eating healthy. In a way, I think he needs a project now that he’s been fired from the team and could only find part-time work, but he genuinely likes me, too, and we’ve put the past behind us.

You would absolutely hate it, LOL.

My dad certainly does.

I finally broke the news to Dad a few days ago about befriending Gunderson, and he was so mad, but I know he’ll come around. He’s going to have to. Madison has been really supportive, but Rex…I think I’m going to take him with me when I tell Dad and Linda about the baby. Our baby.

I wish you were here.

You were so easy to fall in love with, do you realize that?

It’s killing me not telling you my news—our news—but I refuse to do it over the phone. You deserve to hear it in person, but now is not the time, and I cannot come there.

I love you, and I’m proud of you.

Love, Anabelle.

AKA Your baby mama.

Kidding, omg. But I have always wanted to say that. Haha.





Elliot



It’s been a shitty week, and the only thing getting me through is the countdown to winter break.

I think about Anabelle nonstop, wondering if she thinks about me as much as I think about her. Today in class, I caught myself staring off at the wall twice, daydreaming instead of taking notes.

Doodling on a loose-leaf sheet of paper, then finally, hand writing her a note in small, tidy penmanship.



Ana. Annie. Anabelle.

Guess what? I’m coming home for a family event soon, a banquet for my dad. Remember I told you about him? He’s a lawyer and every year, his firm hosts a big to-do. So, I’m coming home!

I’m not going to tell you, I want it to be a surprise—I want to see the look on your face when I show up on your doorstep Friday night. I’m flying and get in late, so my ass will be seriously dragging.

Dead on my feet will never have been more worth it.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be coming back at all. I would skip the awards dinner altogether and give my parents an excuse about being busy, but they’re buying me a plane ticket and I’d be stupid to pass up the chance to see you.

Michigan isn’t the same without my friends here, without you. Jesus, I lie in bed every night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I made the right decision. Logically, I know it is—my professors are incredible, and this internship is going to set me up after I graduate.

Still, I have my doubts.

That’s why I can’t wait to see you. I’m going to spoon the shit out of you in that big bed—I didn’t book a hotel, so I hope you don’t mind me crashing at your place. I just want to hold you.

I hope you’ll let me.

I miss the smell of your skin and the taste of your lips, and the way you back up into me in bed when you’re sleeping.

Not to sound like a total pussy, but whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder wasn’t fucking around.

I miss you like crazy.

I love you.



When class is over, I rise from the desk, crushing the letter I just wrote in the palm of my hand, wadding it into a ball. Toss it in the trash can in the corner.

It goes in easy, the perfect basket.

Score!





Elliot



I’m back.

It’s been months since I’ve been back or seen anyone, if you don’t count social media—which I do not since I’m not active on it. No one knows I’m here; no one knows I’ve safely landed but my mother.

My father is being honored by the state bar association for his pro bono work and dedication to developing innovative ways to deliver volunteer legal services to those who can’t afford them, and naturally, I’m expected to attend the ceremony in Iowa.

Home.

I didn’t hesitate to book my flight, not wanting to waste any time driving the distance in my car.

My cab pulls up to the curb, stalling while I grab my carry-on and laptop bag, sliding out of his backseat. Feet hitting the ground, I stand, heart racing, staring down the sidewalk of that tiny college rental.

Anabelle is inside.

The kitchen light is on, the small one above the sink I always kept on when Anabelle was out and I didn’t want her coming home to a dark house.

Slamming the door of my ride, I heft up my bags, staring up the walkway. Raise my hand to the door and knock.

Step back off the stoop, waiting.

Did I mention my heart is jackhammering right out of my fucking chest? So hard I can hear it and feel it beating in my throat.

The door cracks a few inches and a familiar face appears. Opens farther.

Anabelle stands there, shell-shocked.

Jesus, she looks good.

She’s practically glowing.

It only takes us seconds to recover and launch our bodies at one another; my arms wrap around her waist, lifting her off the ground until her feet dangle. Spin her around, desperate to put my lips on her.

“I fucking missed you.” I plant kisses on her mouth, cheek, and hairline.

“Oh my God.” Her voice is muffled, face buried in the crook of my neck.