The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

I laugh. “No.”

“Okay, great, I think that covers the basics.” She pulls her hands away from the computer. Stands and goes to the blue cabinet, pulling out a blue hospital gown, laying it on the exam table. “Remove everything and put this on, open to the back. You can cover your legs with this.” She lays out a paper square moonlighting as a blanket.

Her smile is motherly. “Sit tight and I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. We’ll both be in shortly.”

“Thanks.”

I make quick work of getting changed then hop onto the table, legs dangling over the side when there’s a short knock at the door. It opens, my new gynecologist sticking his head through.

“Knock knock.” He enters the room, nurse trailing along behind him. Extends his hand. “Hello, Anabelle, I’m Doctor Pritchard.”

We make idle chitchat while he and his nurse prepare for the physical, and a moment later, I have my legs spread in the stirrups, exam underway.

Dr. Pritchard rolls back in his chair, staring up at me over the tops of his black-rimmed glasses. “Anabelle, are you sure there is no chance you could be pregnant?”

I frown. “Yes, I’m sure. Why?”

“Your cervix appears to be softening and slightly enlarged. Because you’re a first-time patient, with your permission, I’m going to go ahead and order a pregnancy test, just to be certain.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?”

He nods, standing, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash. Smiles. “Fairly certain.”

Five minutes later, I’m dressed and peeing in a cup.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pregnant.

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

Holy shit.

No matter how many times I say it, it’s not real.

“Do you have time for an ultrasound?” the doctor is asking. Dazed, I shake my head, doing my best to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. “I can send an order down and get you in today, within the next two hours if you have time to wait around, or we should be able to schedule one later in the week. I’d like to get a better idea of how far along you are.”

How far along I am.

I’m pregnant.

The doctor drops his head, scribbling on a notepad. “This is the name of a prenatal you should grab on your way out, or just stop at the drug store. Folic acid should also be taken with food, every morning.”

I give a barely perceivable nod.

Folic acid. Prenatal.

“I have time to stick around.”

The wait feels like an eternity, the waiting room a beige, cold cube devoid of personality. Sterile. Head down, I occasionally glance at the patients surrounding me: two older couples waiting for their weekly blood draws and a young expectant mother with her hands securely wrapped around her stomach.

I stare at that stomach, palms sliding to my own, over the waistband of my black yoga pants.

It’s flat.

For now.

Sleepwalking through the rest of my appointment, numb, I lie on the table in the ultrasound room, arms at my sides, holding back tears as the oblivious technician rolls the wand around my stomach.

“According to this ultrasound, you’re measuring roughly twelve weeks along.” She smiles cheerfully.

“What?” I practically shout, trying to sit up, the flimsy paper blanket falling halfway to the exam room floor. “Twelve weeks? How is that possible?”

“Oh, how cute are you going to be when you start showing?” She chirps pleasantly, all smiles, wand gliding across my stomach, below my belly button, the clear gel a cold reminder of why I’m here.

“You’re one of those lucky first-time moms who doesn’t show any pregnancy symptoms until she’s rather far along, I would imagine. So lucky—I was as big as a house with my first one,” she says, teasing.

I muster up a feeble smile, bottom lip threatening to tremble. “No signs whatsoever.”

“Not even morning sickness?”

I shake my head. “Not even morning sickness.”

“That’s great. With every one of my kids, I threw up so much I could barely make it to work. I think I called in sick most of my entire first trimester.”

Eventually, I stop listening, and when the technician prints out the ultrasound pictures and hands them to me, I stare dazedly at the blurry black and white image.

A baby.

“It’s about the size of a sweet little strawberry. Imagine that.” She winks, washing her hands in the sink. “Now you have an excuse to go home and take a nap.”

“A strawberry.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Why is she so cheery? It’s throwing me off, postponing the panic that will surely come by the time I hit the parking lot.

Elliot: Hey, I haven’t heard from you all day.

I almost don’t have the heart to answer him, but I don’t have the heart to avoid him, either.

Me: I know. Sorry, I was…preoccupied.

Elliot: Rough day?

Me: You could say that.

Elliot: Want to talk about it?

Me: Not right now.

Elliot: Anabelle, is everything all right?

Me: It’ll be fine. I just need to think.

Elliot: Okay…

Me: Tell me about your day, it had to have been better than mine.

Elliot: The usual—research and writing. Spent most of the day in the library.

Me: That is one of your favorite spots.

Elliot: I have a few of them.

Me: Oh yeah, where else?

Elliot: You know that smooth skin along your collarbone…

I don’t reply.

Elliot: You still there?

Me: Yeah—sorry, I have a lot on my mind.

Elliot: I get it, getting into the swing of things when the school year starts sucks.

Me: I’m just having a crappy day.

Elliot: What about this weekend? Are you going out? I know Madison has been dragging you out into public.

Me: She has been, but nothing exciting. The usual crowd. She gets irritated with me because I’m boring, LOL. I just never want a repeat of the night you had to carry me home.

And now that I’m an unwed, single, expectant mother, it’s never going to happen. Ever.

Elliot: But that turned out okay, didn’t it?

Me: Sure it did. Look at us now—friends and all that.

I change the subject; my hormones cannot handle where this conversation could possibly be headed, talking about how we’ve remained close during the past weeks, though he’s all the way across Lake Michigan.

Me: What about you—are you doing anything this weekend?

Elliot: Probably. I’ve actually been hanging out with a few people from the medical program. We grab beer a few nights a week.

Me: Yeah?

Elliot: Yeah. There’s this one girl who reminds me of you. Her dad is actually a professor here. I posted a picture on IG when we went out last night.

My stomach drops, the thought of him getting emotionally involved with someone new making me ill. I’m queasier than I’ve felt all day.

My hands fly to my stomach.

Me: I haven’t looked.

Elliot: I hope you’re doing well, Anabelle.

Doing well.

Me: I am. Same to you.

Elliot: I should shut my phone off. This term paper isn’t going to write itself.

Me: Talk to you later. Good luck with your paper.

In the bathroom, I strip down and remove all my clothes, standing in front of the mirror for the second time today, eyes trailing down my naked body, looking for any signs that there’s a baby growing inside me.

I cup my boobs, but they aren’t tender and don’t appear—or feel—any bigger. My hips look the same—slender.

Still…

A baby.

Elliot and I made a baby.

The harder I stare at my body, the more impactful the word baby becomes. I’m alone, standing in a cold bathroom, barefoot and pregnant.

I lift a hand to cover my mouth, muffling the sob rising from my throat. Then, the other palm covers my eyes, my face.

Wracking sobs of guilt taking over my entire tired body. Wet tears coming by the bucket-full, streaming down my face.

“What am I going to do?” I whisper, crying into my hands.

What am I going to tell him? What am I going to say?