The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(75)

Months, even.

I pause when my palm slopes upward.

My eyes meet her watering eyes.

“Anabelle?” I whisper, unsure.

She bites her trembling bottom lip, chin quivering when I pull my hand away, shocked.

Hesitate.

Set my hand back on her stomach.

Her belly.

Her fucking baby bump.

“Are you…” I can’t even say the words.

Instead of answering, she swallows, wet tears streaking down her beautiful face.

“Anabelle, is this…i-is it…”

Mine?

She nods.

I lean back, silent, not having a single clue what to do with myself. My hands, my body, my thoughts.

Mine.

Holy fuck.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

I’m not going to panic, I’m not going to panic, I’m not going to panic.

“How far along?” My voice is barely recognizable.

“Sixteen weeks.”

I damn near jump off the bed. “Sixteen weeks!”

Then I do jump off the bed, climbing off, burying my fingers into the hair that could probably use a trim while Anabelle sobs on the bed—and now I’m on the verge of sobbing myself.

“I’m s-sor…s-sorry,” she cries.

Oh my God.

She’s pregnant.

My apartment. My friends. My mom, my dad, my family. Everything important in my life flashes before me in a time lapse. The grades. The degree. The master’s.

The parenting book on the bedside table.

I reach for it, raise it from the table, study the cover. What to Expect When You’re—I set it down like it’s on fire, and it falls to the floor with a thud.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with my back to Anabelle, the sound of her sobs, muffled by the sound of the blood rushing to my brain, has the analytical part of me piecing together our entire relationship, one fast, orgasmic fuck at a time.

We didn’t use a condom because she’s on birth control.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Despite all this, the unhappy noises coming from Anabelle draw me to her. Crawling under the covers, I scoot up next to her, pulling her into my front side. “Shh, don’t cry.”

She nods feebly but doesn’t stop—can’t stop.

“Anabelle,” I ask cautiously, “how long have you known?”

“A few weeks.”

A few weeks? Jesus Christ! She’s been dealing with this information by herself for weeks?

Guilt settles in the pit of my stomach.

“How many is a few?”

“I don’t know, I was afraid to keep track,” she croaks out her confession, throat raw. “Four? Three? Five?”

Gathering my courage, I run my hand down her hip, gently nudging her to her back. Gently lift the hem of her shirt, folding it back so it’s out of my way.

Study her stomach.

Her skin is still satin smooth, but now it’s beginning to stretch taut. It couldn’t be more obvious that she’s pregnant.

“Can I feel it?”

“Yes.”

My palm touches just below her belly button as she watches breathlessly. I run my hand over the bump, back and forth, fingers skimming over the baby growing inside.

“Say something,” she whispers. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m…”

Freaking out.

Stunned. Shocked. Dismayed.

Fascinated.

“Speechless.”

“I know. Me too.” She nods. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” I’m not sure how to bring this up. “But I thought you were on birth control.”

“I am. I was.” She’s on the verge of tears again. “It obviously wasn’t effective.”

Obviously.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” I feel like such a dumbass asking, but Jesus, I’m twenty-one years old—what the hell do I know about raising a kid? My mom still makes my doctor’s appointments. I’m still on my parents’ fucking health insurance, for God’s sake.

Speaking of parents…

“Have you told your dad?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Anabelle laughs, though it’s the least appropriate time to giggle. “What do you think he said?”

“Dumb question, sorry. When did you tell him?”

“Last week. I wasn’t alone, if you’re worried about that.”

“Who went with you?” Absentmindedly, without even realizing I’m doing it, my hand caresses her belly, insatiably curious about the small bump.

“Don’t be mad when I tell you, okay?”

I roll my eyes, a gesture I’m normally not prone to. “Anabelle, nothing you say right now could surprise me more than the fact that you’re pregnant.”

Nothing.

Not a single, goddamn thing.

A fucking elephant could break through the wall right now and I wouldn’t flinch. Steady as a rock.

“I probably should have mentioned it sooner, but at the beginning of the year, I reconnected with Rex.”

“Say again?” I pause, needing clarification, as if I didn’t hear her clearly. “Gunderson?”