The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(88)

“Elliot—”

“Would you let me finish? I’ve had almost seven hours in the car with nothing to do but think this through, think about you and this baby. It’s a fucking miracle I was able to finish this last semester, Anabelle. I have no idea how to be a dad, but mine is pretty fucking great, and so is yours—that right there is an automatic win for us.”

I babble on, driven by nerves. “I’m excited. I want to barf sometimes, but who doesn’t? I’m scared shitless, but so are you, and we’re old enough to make this work.”

She’s worrying her bottom lip, nibbling, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, so I do the only thing I can do. I ask.

“I’m freaking the fuck out, Anabelle. Would you please say something?” You could cut the thick silence in the room with a dull knife.

“Rex is…just my friend.”

Seriously? She’s going to start the conversation by bringing that douche canoe into it? I bristle.

“He is just my friend and he’s been amazing. I love him, and it’s important you know that because he’s not going anywhere. He’s rubbed my back and kept me company, and shoveled my sidewalk in the freezing cold. Rex has done all the things a good friend does to be supportive.”

“Is he in love with you?”

Anabelle bites her lip again. Nods. “I think he might be.”

Unrequited love sucks dick.

I’ve never felt it, never been in it, but I imagine loving someone who doesn’t love me back would gut me. Poor bastard.

“Did he say as much?”

“No, but he kissed me.”

“When?”

Why am I asking her these questions when the answer will only serve to piss me off? Glutton for punishment.

“Tonight. Before you got here.”

“And you let him?” My voice raises a notch, heart racing.

“I did.”

“And?” The suspense is killing me.

“It was nice.”

It was nice?

What the hell does that mean? I’m not sure what to do with that information or how to react, so I stand there, gazing down at her, baffled. Patient but confused as shit.

Then, “You’re just friends, but the kiss was nice?”

“Yes.”

Sort of how she and I were “just friends,” but the sex was fantastic? We were “just friends,” but are having a baby?

Shit.

“He knows he’s not the one for me.”

“Does he though?”

“Yes. We talk about you all the time.”

Oh, awesome! I can imagine how those conversations go if we’re basing it on his behavior on the porch. He called me a douche and “baby daddy”, and neither came out his mouth sounding like compliments.

I roll my eyes. “He didn’t seem thrilled to see me.”

“No, he wasn’t, but put yourself in his shoes. We have a class together, we have fun together, and he didn’t judge me when he found out I was pregnant—in fact, he loves babies. Weird, right?”

Yeah. Weird.

I scowl.

“He’s introduced me to his parents and really cares, Elliot. He’s changed in the past few months. I think getting kicked off the team was the best thing that’s happened to him, strange as that sounds.”

“Okay, can we please stop talking about Rex Gunderson and start talking about us?”

I’m so irritated.

“But don’t you see? He’s a part of my life and he’ll have to be part of yours too if we’re going to make this work, if we’re going to be together. That’s what you want, right? To be together?”

Yes. “Hell yes.”

“Then you’ll figure out a way to tolerate each other, for my sake. I’m not abandoning a friend because the two of you can’t act mature. Suck it up.”

Jealousy is a powerful sentiment, elevated when the situation is already fucked up.

“That’s something a mom would say,” I murmur.

Anabelle grins, beaming. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” I glance down two overflowing bags dumped by the door. “You’re going to be an awesome mom, Anabelle. I’m sorry it’s sooner than you planned.”

I can’t meet her eyes, can’t do anything but stare at that stomach, nestled beneath that navy cotton T-shirt, bump proudly on display. Long hair down, falling around her left shoulder, thick and shiny.

My eyes drift to her breasts.

Her narrow waist, despite the expanding bump, and I would wager if she turned around, I wouldn’t be able to tell she was pregnant.

She’s checking me out, too, gaze skimming across my broad shoulders like she’s done a hundred times before, but this feels different.

“The semester has been good to you. You look good.”

“Do I? I feel like shit.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I’ve done nothing but worry since I went back to Michigan. I didn’t know what you’d say when you saw me tonight, didn’t know if you’d tell me to go fuck myself or let me through the door. It’s been horrible.”

I wasn’t kidding when I said I almost threw up.

I had to stop a few times en route and dry heave out my driver’s side window. The closer I got to the house, the tighter the knots in my stomach pulled, a jumbled fucking mess.