The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

Gunderson calls it AnaBean, convinced that it’s a girl.

That thought puts a smile on my face.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s…I know I gave you the shock of a lifetime last night.” I fiddle with the straw in my water glass. “Rex thinks I should have told you sooner.”

“Oh?” His inflection is sarcastic, lip uncharacteristically curled. “Rex thinks so, huh? What else does he say?”

I sigh, frustrated, knowing Elliot can’t stand Gunderson, but still determined to make him accept the fact that Rex is in my life. I bite back a moody reply that would probably only serve to piss him off even further. The tension at this table is already palpable; no need for me to make it worse.

“When do you leave?”

“In the morning.”

Tomorrow.

That knot in my belly tightens; he’s leaving.

Again.

“I don’t know what else to do here, Anabelle. I have to go back and finish the semester. My hands are tied—I can’t stay, you have to know that.”

I do know it.

“I felt like a dickhead leaving before. This is going to kill me.” He reaches across the table, grasping for my hands. “I’ll be back for the holidays, and we can figure out what we’re going to do then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want…I want to be here for you, dammit—I don’t want you relying on that fuckstick Gunderson.”

“Because you care or because you’re jealous?”

“Both! Jesus, both. That kid drives me fucking nuts—he shouldn’t be the one walking you around the baby aisle.”

Relief floods my body. “When did you decide this?”

“Last night. I couldn’t sleep for shit. And today, all fucking morning while I let my sisters race me around town to buy a gift for our dad, I wanted to pull my hair out.”

I’ve had a lot of sleepless nights myself, full of fear and worry and paranoia. “Are you saying you want to leave your master’s program?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s not fair that you’re doing this alone, and if the next words out of your mouth are ‘But I’m not doing it alone, I’m doing it with Rex,’ I swear to you Anabelle, I’ll lose my mind.”

“I am made of sterner stuff than that, Elliot. My father is the coach for one of the best college wrestling teams in the United States. He did not raise me to rely on any man. I can do this on my own. I can. I promise you, I’m strong enough.”

I’ve given it a lot of thought, day in and day out, until it was the only thing getting me through the week, the idea of having and raising this baby on my own while still going to school.

After this semester, I’ll only have one more to single-parent my way through.

“Anabelle…” Elliot hedges.

“Stop. We are not discussing it.” I squeeze my eyes shut, rather immaturely. “The best thing for your future—for this baby’s future”—I place my hand on my stomach—“is for you to get your master’s from Michigan. Make something of yourself—that’s what I want. You hate it in Iowa.”

“Is that what you think? That I hate it here?”

“I don’t think you hate it, but I don’t think it’s where you want to be. Before you left, you said there was nothing here for you.”

“I was an idiot,” he sputters. “I didn’t mean you.”

“Elliot,” I say patiently, “I like you too much to ask you to leave school, and I know you’re still getting over the shock of all this, but if you want to support this child, you’ll stay where you are and get your degree.” I pause. “We both know it’s the right thing to do.”

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?”