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How to Date a Douchebag: The Coaching Hours by Sara Ney (24)

 

 

 

Elliot

 

 

I’m back.

It’s been months since I’ve been back or seen anyone, if you don’t count social media—which I do not since I’m not active on it. No one knows I’m here; no one knows I’ve safely landed but my mother.

My father is being honored by the state bar association for his pro bono work and dedication to developing innovative ways to deliver volunteer legal services to those who can’t afford them, and naturally, I’m expected to attend the ceremony in Iowa.

Home.

I didn’t hesitate to book my flight, not wanting to waste any time driving the distance in my car.

My cab pulls up to the curb, stalling while I grab my carry-on and laptop bag, sliding out of his backseat. Feet hitting the ground, I stand, heart racing, staring down the sidewalk of that tiny college rental.

Anabelle is inside.

The kitchen light is on, the small one above the sink I always kept on when Anabelle was out and I didn’t want her coming home to a dark house.

Slamming the door of my ride, I heft up my bags, staring up the walkway. Raise my hand to the door and knock.

Step back off the stoop, waiting.

Did I mention my heart is jackhammering right out of my fucking chest? So hard I can hear it and feel it beating in my throat.

The door cracks a few inches and a familiar face appears. Opens farther.

Anabelle stands there, shell-shocked.

Jesus, she looks good.

She’s practically glowing.

It only takes us seconds to recover and launch our bodies at one another; my arms wrap around her waist, lifting her off the ground until her feet dangle. Spin her around, desperate to put my lips on her.

“I fucking missed you.” I plant kisses on her mouth, cheek, and hairline.

“Oh my God.” Her voice is muffled, face buried in the crook of my neck.

“Are you crying?”

“No.” She sniffs, definitely crying. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulls back, swiping at a stray tear. “Why are you here? Did someone say something?”

“Say something about what?”

She pales, wiping back a stray tear. “Nothing. I’m just—you’re here. I can’t believe it.”

I’m beaming, arms still wrapped around her waist.

“The bar association is honoring my dad tomorrow for thirty years of service, and it was a perfect excuse to hop on a plane and come see everyone.” To see her.

“I see.”

“Anyway, I know it’s late and I just showed up on your doorstep, but I was hoping I could stay here.”

“With me?”

“Is that all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I… we have so much to catch up on.” The door opens all the way and Anabelle steps aside, giving me room to enter the house. “Come in.”

I step up, stealing another kiss along the way, planting it on her surprised mouth. “Mind if I take this to your room? I’m so fucking tired—would it be weird if we called it a night early?”

I’m babbling but too tired to care.

“No! No, go ahead. I’ll just…I’ll…” God, she’s cute, stumbling over her words, bottom lip trembling. “I’ll just…”

I close the front door, locking it behind us, and reach for her. Wrap her in another hug, resting my chin on top of her head. She’s visibly shaken; whatever reaction I thought she’d have when she saw me again, this isn’t it. By now, I thought we’d be laughing in the kitchen, possibly ripping off our clothes and going at it hard on the table.

“I really didn’t think I’d see you again until Christmas.”

“I didn’t either,” I respond honestly because I had no plans to come to Iowa until the holiday calendar demanded I did. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being here? I can go stay with Zeke and Violet, or check into a hotel.”

“It’s okay, I’m just freaking out a little. Well, a lot.” Her laugh is coupled with nerves. “Sorry, I’m being awkward.”

Anabelle squirms to be released, so I give her space, picking up my two bags and following her to the bedroom I once called my own. Set my bags on the floor, next to the dresser, peeling off my socks.

“Mind if I jump in the shower? I’d love to wash the travel off.”

“Yeah, sure—just let me grab you a towel. Madison gets weird about sharing things like that.”

When she’s gone, I take a few seconds to survey the room, to see what she’s done with it now that I’m not living here anymore.

Same bed, different bedspread. Hers is white, with ruffles, fluffy and inviting. Same TV and TV stand. Same dresser.

She’s added a nightstand and a lamp, and I run my fingers along the books piled on top. The top one is a parenting book, which is weird since she’s a law student, but I move on to the dresser, thinking it must be for a friend. Remove my watch and set it down, cuffing my wrist with my fingers and massaging it.

“All set.” Her voice rings out from across the hall.

The shower is running when I hit the bathroom, and I shuck my clothes, ducking into the warm spray. God, it feels good; this whole trip was such a great fucking idea.

I stand for a solid five minutes, then spend another five washing my hair, lathering my pits, cock, and ass. Rinse. Shut off the water and dry off. I wrap the towel around my waist, grabbing up my dirty clothes by the armful.

Anabelle is on the bed, already lying down when I return, arms behind her head, watching me.

Close the door.

Toss my dirty clothes into a pile I’ll deal with later.

Bending, I dig in my bag for clean boxers and pajama pants before I drop the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. I glance over my shoulder to see if she’s watching, and note her eyes fastened on my ass with satisfaction.

Sliding into bed with her is oddly exhilarating, and I roll toward her, propping my chin in my hand. She does the same.

Smiles.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept, so I reach out to stroke my thumb over the smooth skin beneath her eyes. “You look exhausted.”

Her smile is wobbly. “I am.”

“How are you? Really.”

I know she misses me and took my leaving hard, probably harder than she let on, always presenting me with a brave face in our messages and emails. At first, I was thankful for it—her fake smile made it easier to drive away from the house that day. Her shoving me off the porch toward my car allowed me to freely walk toward it, climb inside, and actually start the engine.

But the truth is, I secretly prayed it would break down before I was out of town that day. It didn’t. Everything went according to plan, and I was in Michigan before bed the next night.

“How am I.” It’s a statement, not a question, and she seems to consider it. “I’m…” Lets out a loud puff of air, tears welling up.

Anabelle rolls to her back, eyes trained on the ceiling. Reaches for my hand and places it on her pelvis, just below the waistband of her shorts, lifting the hem of her loose T-shirt.

Naturally, my hand begins a slow glide north, gliding over the warm skin I’ve dreamed about for days. Weeks.

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?”

“One and the same.” She chuckles beside me, red eyes finally drying.

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve become friends.”

I pull back, hand frozen on the swell of her stomach. “I’m not following.”

“We have a class together like we did last year, and he invited me to coffee so we could talk…and I went, and it was nice.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, it was nice. I’m sorry if it upsets you, but he really isn’t as terrible as he’s been in the past.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Because you don’t like him.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Elliot. He’s been really supportive.” She chooses her next words carefully. “Anyway, he came with me to my dad’s—who knows Rex and I are friends, by the way—and sat there while I told them. Linda cried, of course, and my dad blew up and kicked Rex out.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“He assumed the baby was Rex’s.”

“Awesome.” Just great.

As if the fucking situation wasn’t fucked up enough, people are going to think this baby—my baby—is Rex motherfucking Gunderson’s, the biggest dipshit on campus?

Over my dead body.

I’ve never been jealous of a single soul before meeting that moron, but I’m jealous now—insanely so.

I can’t believe Anabelle is naïve enough to fall for his nice-guy routine after being shit on by him once before.

Jesus H. Christ.

“Don’t get mad, Elliot.” Her voice is cajoling, low and soft. “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, and I was afraid I wouldn’t see you until December, because by then I’ll be huge and oh my God, this is so bad. First I’m fine, then I’m crying, then I’m fine. I’m a mess—I never would have known I was pregnant if I hadn’t gone to the doctor, and since I hadn’t been to a doctor in Iowa before, I was required to have a physical.” She’s crying and babbling at the same time. “And the doctor started asking me all these questions about being pregnant, and I thought there was no way I could be, no way, but the pill isn’t one hundred percent and I was devastated when I found out.

“And so scared. I couldn’t sleep and I looked like shit, but I had to go to class. I couldn’t stay in bed crying forever—that wouldn’t be doing anyone any good. So, I showed up to the lecture hall, and who walks in but Rex. There he was, said I looked tired and did I want some coffee? He made an offhanded comment about the way I looked then a wisecrack about me being pregnant, and what could I say? I couldn’t lie. Because I am.

“One time we went to Target and walked through the baby aisle looking at all the tiny clothes.” She laughs. “He thought it would cheer me up.”

I want to be sick, want to puke all over this white bedspread at the thought of Gunderson taking her to the fucking baby department at goddamn Target. What the actual fuck?

It’s like I went to bed last night and woke up in a parallel universe where Rex Gunderson has taken over my life and is filling my shoes.

You moved to Michigan, remember?

She doesn’t say it, but we’re both thinking it.

I shut my mouth and save my comments for myself. Run my hand over her abs, up toward her breasts, not daring to actually touch them. “Have these gotten any bigger?” I blurt out rudely.

“Oh my God, seriously?” Anabelle groans. “You just found out I’m pregnant and you’re asking if my boobs are bigger.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Well they aren’t, not yet, but they probably will be.”

“Huh.”

She yawns.

“Anabelle?”

“Yeah?”

“I just want you to know I’m…sorry, for this, for everything I missed.”

“You don’t have to apologize, we’re both responsible.”

“I know, but I should have known better.”

She tilts her head, trying to get a better look at me. “What do you mean?”

“Until you’re in a committed relationship, you should always wear a condom. That’s like, textbook common sense—Oz and Zeke lectured me about it all the fucking time.”

“I was committed to you, Elliot, in my own way, whether you wanted me to be or not.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Unless two people are planning a future together, they should be careful.”

“You know what, Elliot? I’ve been living like this for weeks with nothing to do but lie here, by myself, and think about this baby inside me over and over and over again. I lie in the dark, dwelling on it, on what we could have done differently and how my life is going to change. How disappointed my parents are. My mother barely speaks to me, blames this whole thing on my dad.” She yawns. “Can we just sleep? This second trimester is kicking my ass.” Her hand reaches for mine, pulling it around her waist. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The lights are shut off and after Anabelle dozes off, I’m still lying in the dark, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.

I’m going to be a father at the age of twenty-two.

A dad.

Because I got a girl I’m not in a relationship with pregnant.

Knocking a girl up is something I would have expected my old roommates to have done before they found love and settled. They’re the ones who used to sleep around, not me.

What the hell am I going to do?