The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(78)

Elliot is quiet and I know he’s considering my words, thinking through their logic.

He knows I’m right.

The place for him is where he’s at, not here with me.

“Are you pushing me away on purpose?”

“I’m not pushing you away, I’m trying not to be selfish so we can do what’s right.”

Why does doing what’s right hurt so much?

“You need some time just like I did. You’re going to go back home, to Michigan, and it’s going to hit you all over again that I am pregnant. I’m pregnant, Elliot, and I’m having this baby and it took me an entire month to get used to the idea, an entire month until I stopped ugly crying.” I’m watching him carefully, eyes perilously close to welling up. “You’ve known less than thirty-six hours—you haven’t experienced the whole range of emotions.”

“I just feel…” He’s holding back, I can feel it.

“Tell me. Be honest.”

His head shakes. “I can’t say it without sounding like a fucking douchebag, but I’m relieved that I get to leave, okay? I also feel guilty that I’m going. Disgusted with myself. Ashamed. Jesus, I feel it all, and it feels like shit.”

My lips part wordlessly.

I wanted him to be honest, yes, but the kind of truth tormenting him is the hardest to bear. It’s raw and real and complicated.

Elliot runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands, and I can tell without even feeling it that his heart is beating fast.

“Your flight leaves at seven in the morning, and when it takes off, we both know you’ll be on it.”





Elliot




“Anabelle? Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

“Me either.”

Obviously.

I feel the mattress dip as she rolls toward me. With the bright full moon shining, there’s enough light to make out the delicate features of her face, the slope of her nose and the curved jawline. The bow of her lips. The faint arch of her brows.

“I don’t know what to do, Anabelle.”

The room is silent as she gathers her thoughts.

“Me either, but…that’s okay.”

“How the hell are you so calm about this?”

“I’m not calm, I’ve just had more time to get used to the idea.”

I want to reach out and pull her close, touch her and kiss her and feel the warm press of her body against mine. Am I allowed to now that I’ve gone and gotten her pregnant? Would she let me hold her, or would she tell me to go fuck myself?

“Kind of wish you would have met my roommate this weekend.”

“Where has she been?”

“She doesn’t usually go home much, but this weekend her grandpa turned one hundred. Her family is only a few hours away, so…”

“Does she think I’m an asshole?”

“No. She knows the situation.”

The situation—is that what we’re calling it now?

“Good. I mean, you don’t need the added stress of having friends who think you’re irresponsible for getting…”

I can’t say the word pregnant out loud. Cannot.

“Madison hasn’t said anything judgmental, not that I know of, and definitely not to my face. A few of my friends back home in Mass…that’s a different story. You remember that I went to a Catholic college, right?”

I nod in the dark, mentally counting all the times I’ve used the Lord’s name in vain, just in the past few months—hundreds.

Thousands, and counting.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t lost a few friends over this. It’s been rough. My freshman roommate Savannah won’t speak to me. She called me a charlatan.”

“What!”

Her voice is composed. “That’s how she was raised, Elliot, with the belief that we save ourselves for marriage. Touching and fooling around are for committed relationships. I miss her, but I don’t blame her.” Anabelle’s voice is the epitome of patience and understanding, and it occurs to me that this is how she’ll be with her child.

Our child.

The thought is rather mollifying.

She changes the subject, enquiring quietly, “When are you going to tell your parents?”

“Eventually. As shitty as it sounds, I might just call and tell my mom over the phone.”

“Elliot! Are you serious?”

“Look, Anabelle, I have to live with the idea a little while first. Plus, without sounding callous, I don’t think they’re going to melt down about it, not like your dad. I’m pretty sure they’ll be understanding.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m not, but I have older sisters and one of them—Jill—had a baby in high school. I don’t remember my mom ever yelling or crying about it. I remember her being super chill, considering.” My mom is the most caring and quiet woman I’ve ever met, the calming force in my father’s stressful life, and in mine and my sisters’.

Growing up, my mother would be standing at the kitchen counter when I walked through the door after school, always with a snack prepared and dinner in the oven.

Always.

Nauseatingly idyllic, my childhood was a goddamn Norman Rockwell painting of home-cooked dinners, perfect grades, and playing outside on our manicured lawn.