Anabelle
“So how did it go at your dad’s thing?”
He’s been gone for hours, having left the house late morning, looking dapper in black dress pants and a button-down shirt. I helped him with his tie, a periwinkle blue and bright pink paisley, my trembling hands so embarrassingly unknowledgeable on the task, I had to redo it four times.
Elliot stood patiently, smelling like a fresh shower while I fumbled. Then, with a self-conscious backward glance—as if he almost couldn’t make himself go—his black leather dress shoes carried him out the door and down the steps. Headed to some fancy hotel downtown when between us, there were so many things left unsaid.
But he’s back now, sitting in my kitchen, able to rationally discuss “the situation.”
The situation—is that what I’m calling it now?
“How did it go? I honestly have no idea—I could barely concentrate on anything my father or his colleagues were saying during their speeches. This baby thing is all I could fucking think about. I sleepwalked through the entire day.”
This baby thing…
I know he didn’t mean to say it like that, but still, a knot forms in the pit of my stomach and I resist the urge to put my hands on my belly protectively. I’ve been doing that a lot lately—touching my small bump, rubbing it and gazing at it in the mirror, watching it grow.
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?”
“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.
Anabelle hums in her throat. “What’s it like having parents who are relaxed and sympathetic? Mine are both so intense and intimidating. I was petrified to tell them.”
“Tell me about it—what happened?”
“Well, when I told my dad, the season hadn’t started and I picked a time I assumed he’d be less stressed out. I hadn’t been sleeping a lot, so I looked like complete shit when I went over there.”
Pfft. “I find that hard to believe.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” Her hand finds mine in the dark, giving it a gentle pat. “In any case, Dad noticed the differences in me right away, right? It’s his job to be observant, and he started asking me all these questions. I’m convinced he thought I was on drugs.”
“Why?”
“All the sudden changes. I was slightly depressed at the beginning and wanted to be alone. Lost some weight from not eating. I got no sleep—it was tearing me up inside. And now…I know what I have to do to graduate and I’m not a fool. I know it’s going to be hard, but how am I supposed to do an internship with an infant? Who’s going to hire me? It’s depressing just thinking about it.”
“You’ll get an internship, Anabelle—who wouldn’t want to hire you?”
“If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working. Not to sound like a drag, but I needed someone to make me feel better.” In the dim light of her bedroom, I see her white teeth peeking through a grin.
“Is it too soon for me to put my hand on your stomach again?” I ask softly, determined to take advantage of the lightened mood.
“Sure, that’s fine. She’s not kicking or anything.”
“She?”
“AnaBean.” She laughs. “I don’t know that it’s a girl—we can’t find out until twenty weeks—but it’s the nickname Rex gave the baby.”
I stiffen, trying to ignore the fact that she used Gunderson’s name in reference to my baby, and smile because the name is so damn cute.
“AnaBean,” I repeat, somewhat amazed—amazed that being with her here like this isn’t freaking me out. Me, lying in the dark with my pregnant old roommate. Me, lying in the dark with a girl I left behind in pursuit of better things.
I’m almost twenty-three years old.
I thought I had my life mapped out.
Instead, I lay my hand on Anabelle’s stomach, letting her guide me over her skin, flesh different but the same. In the short amount of time I lived with her, I learned a few things I knew I’d never forget, like the fact that she smells good all the time, even without showering.
Her skin is always smooth.
She doesn’t hold a grudge and forgives easily—almost too easily. Case in point: Rex Gunderson, who, oddly enough, she let into her life.
I consider these factoids as my big palm caresses her stomach, basking in the memories we’ve shared in this bed. The late nights watching television, arguing over which show to watch…whether or not to eat in bed…who was going to turn the light off…whether there were too many blankets.
And the sex.
Sweaty and sweet and fucking fantastic.
Anabelle isn’t shy or self-conscious, which made it good—so goddamn good. I’m getting excited remembering all the times we screwed. Against the wall by the front door. She came home from an afternoon class wearing a yellow sundress and Converse, and I met her at the door, hands sliding down her waist, up the back of her flower-covered skirt.
She dropped her bag to the floor, wrapping her arms around me, tiptoeing to meet my lips, and we made out like two desperate teenagers with only three minutes of unsupervised gum swapping. Sucking face. Frenching.
Whatever you want to call it, it gave me a raging hard-on she wanted to play with. My fingers groped her ass and cupped her tits over the fabric of her pretty dress as she toyed with the zipper of my jeans. Then we fucked, hard and fast, standing up against the wall by the door, lips locked together.
God, it was good.
I’ve never behaved like that with a girl before. Never in my four years at Iowa have I ever brought a girl home. I lived like a monk, sticking to myself and minding my own business, never meddling in others’ affairs. Didn’t date, certainly didn’t sleep around.
Never had a girlfriend.
What does it say about me as a person that when I finally lived with a female, I couldn’t keep my fucking dick to myself? Am I just a horny bastard, or do I genuinely love Anabelle like a man should? Not just as a friend.
Will I ever know the difference?
As my hand grazes her stomach, sliding over that swollen slope of her body, I wonder if our last time together was the exact moment her birth control decided to stop being effective.
“When are you due?”
“Second week of March.”
Five more months.
I do the math in my head, going back in time, counting back the weeks. December, November, October…July…
June.
It had to have been one of the last times we had sex.
“How are you feeling?” I don’t know why I haven’t asked her before now.
“Tired. Nervous.” She pauses, chuckling. “Horny.”
One word and she has my full attention, dick twitching. “Yeah?”
Anabelle’s hips shift against the mattress, under my hand.
“Yeah.”
Shit. What would she do if I moved my hand lower? Or higher? If I put it between her legs?
It stays firmly planted on her abdomen.
“That’s a thing, you know—the increased sex drive from all the raging hormones,” she says it with authority. Confidently.
“I, uh, didn’t know that.”
“It’s an entire chapter in the baby book I’m reading, and at first I didn’t think it would apply to me…” her voice trails off suggestively.
“But it does?”
Her hips shift again and when her thighs rub together, our eyes meet in the shadows, the tension becoming palpable. Expectant.
Unbearable.
Would it be weird to screw her while she’s pregnant? Is it weird that I want to get her naked and touch her entire body, view it in the soft glimmer of moonlight? Instead of fantasizing about Anabelle, my dirty mind should crawl out of the gutter and be supportive, not mentally strip her clothes off, not mentally be feeling up her tits.
Tits I’ve daydreamed about.
Jesus, why am I thinking about this right now! Because you haven’t fucked her in months, moron, and you miss her like fucking crazy. You think about her every goddamn day, picturing her in your mind every time you whack off.
“Yes, it applies to me.”
Am I losing my mind right now, or has her voice gone a little breathless?
“How?”
“I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”
“We’ve passed the point where we have to be self-conscious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Definitely.”
“Then tell me, how does it apply to you?” I’m entering dangerous territory here and don’t give one fuck.
“According to the books, I have rising levels of estrogen and progesterone and extra blood flow in my vagina.” She laughs quietly. “Sorry, that sounded terrible.”
“I’ve taken several medical courses—I can handle the clinical terms.”
“Vagina is a clinical term?”
“Sure.”
“Huh.” Anabelle goes quiet, body humming in the dark. “I think about sex all the time. I dream about it in my sleep. I think about it during class and when I’m eating.”
What a coincidence, so do I.
She goes on, speaking in a low murmur. “I’ve learned to be creative in the past few months to take my mind off it.”
My fingers itch, forefinger beginning a leisurely trace around her belly button. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a guy, you tell me.”
Is she talking about masturbating? Holy hell, girls do that?
“Well, like I said, I’m here to help.”
A giggle bubbles in her throat. “You never said that.”
“I’m saying it now.”
“What a good Samaritan you are, always ready to lend a hand.” She croons seductively, arms behind her head, hair fanned out on the pillow. Anabelle lets one fall, reaching across her body to tussle my hair, twirling the strands aimlessly, carelessly, like she used to. All those hours we spent in this bed, laughing and talking and rolling around on the mattress.
“Anabelle, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Not any more than she has been.
I know enough about the human body to know sex won’t hurt the baby; that’s the last of my worries. So what am I worried about?
How having sex will affect us? Will we be more fucked in the heads than we were before?
Is it worth an orgasm or two to have our hearts ripped out all over again, knowing I have a flight to catch?
“How do you know I won’t hurt you?” I’m so fucking insecure, needing this reassurance. “How?”
“I don’t.” There’s a long pause. “But I’m willing to find out if you are.”
“Please don’t make this my decision.”
Anabelle rolls from her back to her side, facing me, all of our sentiments blanketed by shadows and moonlight. Along with the fears and doubts gripping us tightly, we have expectations of each other that remain largely unspoken.
I have no idea what Anabelle wants or expects of me, no idea what to offer her at this point. I have no real job, no real home, no fucking health insurance of my own, and there weren’t nearly enough hours this weekend to discuss what needed discussing with eighteen long years of uncertain future ahead of us to plan.
“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you,” I rationalize. “I just don’t think it’s fair.”
“Fair to whom?” I catch her rueful smile, even though it’s dark. “Besides, it’s a little late for fair, don’t you think?”
She’s right—of course she is. The damage has already been done.
“Forget I mentioned it, okay? It’s the raging hormones talking.”
I won’t forget it, and if I leave tomorrow without having acted on what we both want so goddamn bad, I’ll regret it until the day I set eyes on her again, which could be weeks from now.
I’ll be gone her entire third trimester if I continue school in Michigan. She’ll be alone, with only her friends and parents and Rex fucking Gunderson swooping in to support her in his tinfoil suit of armor.
I owe her this one night, don’t I? Don’t I owe us both? We love and care for each other; we’re friends.
I don’t have to lean in that far to kiss the side of her face, pulling away when I find it stained with salt.
“Are you crying?” It’s too dark for me to tell, and I’m not about to start feeling up her cheeks.
“No.”
Liar.
She inches into my body, seeking my warmth, face buried in the crook of my neck. I bunch up her hair, kissing the column of her throat, in the tender spot behind her ear. Close my eyes and inhale her. The lotion and shampoo I used in the bathroom without telling her. The clean sheets that smell like her perfume.
Every nuance and sound from this girl—from the young woman having my child—I catalog, committing to memory.
For those nights when I’m alone in my apartment, listening not to the sounds of Anabelle’s quiet sighs, but to the loud asshole upstairs who keeps me awake. Doing what’s best for both of us by being at that school, in that shithole apartment.
God, why am I hesitating to touch her?
I love her.
When my hand grazes her hip, she sucks in a breath. When she doesn’t tell me to go fuck myself, I let it run the length of her leg, up the curve of her waist, and ribcage. Brushing the long hair off her shoulder, I let the silky strands lace through my fingers; it’s been forever since I’ve felt it.
“Do you remember,” I ask slowly, “that time you had me give you a backrub and you took your shirt off?” I’m still futzing with her hair.
“Yes.” I can hear her smiling. “Of course I remember.”
“You do know that ninety-five percent of all girl-guy massages lead to sex? That’s an actual statistic—I looked it up after that night.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing when you took your shirt off.”
She makes a humming sound, low in her throat. “Maybe, but it didn’t work on you, did it? You’re such a gentleman.”
“Trust me, I wanted you so bad—I remember exactly what you looked like lying on the bed, face down while I rubbed your back.”
“Yeah?” she whispers. “How did I look?”
“Your cheeks were flushed and your skin was so fucking smooth, and every time I got close to your ass your eyes would close and your mouth would fall open a little.”
“It felt good. I wanted you to go lower.”
“You kept wiggling your hips.”
“I was turned on.”
“And I was content to just look at you.” I take her jawline in my palm, caressing with the pads of my fingers. “I’m always content to just look at you.”
I see her in my dreams, and I’ll continue seeing her there.
“I was so excited to come home,” I intone quietly. “I couldn’t wait to see you. It was like a rush.”
“Do you regret coming home?”
“No.” I just wish I’d done it sooner.
“Elliot, I wouldn’t blame you for being pissed at me…for getting pregnant.”
“You didn’t get yourself pregnant, Anabelle. You had some help.”
“I know, but—”
I silence her with a kiss, pressing my mouth over her parted lips. They’re warm, fuller than I remember, and quickly intake a breath when I finally give in, giving my hand permission to travel south. Down the porcelain column of her slim neck. Across her clavicle.
Cup her breast.
Weigh it in my palm before plucking at the nipple. Stroke it with my thumb before moving on.
No more words are spoken, not when she leans into me, melting into my arms. Not when we peel off our clothes, one piece at a time, throwing them to the cold floor. Not when I’m sliding into her, long and hard and throbbing with fucking need.
I need her.
We need each other desperately after the last twenty-four emotional hours we’ve had after she gave me the shock of my goddamn life. Pretty face and crying eyes, soft lips and smooth hands.
I need her.
She needs me.
I slide between her spread legs, wanton. More wanton than I’ve been in an age, horny and hallow and scared. There are so many unknowns and impending choices I have no control over.
But I have control over this moment; I have control over how I make Anabelle feel.
Our mouths fuse, dragging drunkenly open, tongues get reacquainted. Hips rolling, pelvis unhurriedly thrusting. Leisurely in and out.
My fingers plant themselves in her long hair, stroking the silky locks as I stroke inside her. Kiss her forehead and temples.
Kiss away a tear, pumping my hips.
Her hands grip my ass, digging. Arches her back. Crying.
Kissing.
Anabelle buries her face in my neck. “I love you.”
I love you, too.
I love you.
More than you’ll know.
Dear Elliot,
I’m back to writing in my diary.
Since I’m not going to see you until your winter break, I thought I would keep you in the loop by journaling. You’re busy and the last thing you need is me burdening you every day with baby updates.
So I will write them here.
Someday, when you’re ready, I’ll share these letters with you. Until then, they will go here where only my eyes can see them.
It’s Monday and getting cold. I stopped for hot chocolate on my way to class this morning and added extra whipped cream because I haven’t really taken advantage of the “eating for two” philosophy yet. Pretty sure this baby will come out being addicted to cocoa, whipped cream, and marshmallows.
I felt my first flutters of life today, Elliot. Don’t worry, I was alone when I felt it—no Rex to swoop in and steal your thunder. Not today anyway, but he does love having a “knocked-up friend,” as he calls me. He is so weird sometimes, LOL.
Tonight I’m going to my dad’s for dinner. It’s been a rough road, but we’re finally getting there. I think mostly he’s embarrassed he has this respectable position at the university, and my first year here, I got pregnant. Linda thinks he’s angry because he couldn’t prevent me getting hurt, but I’m not so sure. He stomps around the house, slamming drawers and grunting.
As for my mom? She isn’t ignoring my phone calls anymore like she did for three weeks after finding out, and she has stopped calling my dad to scream at him. Talk about dysfunctional.
You know, everyone thinks they have the family with the most problems, but when you look further, you see all the cracks.
For the sake of my sanity, I’m hopeful we can all look back and laugh about it.
Hope you’re well. I’m tired and ready for another nap.
Anabelle
Elliot,
I was thinking about the conversation we had in my room about my dad, and I realized I haven’t told you the story—any of it—about when I told Dad about the baby.
So I will tell you now, the memory turning my stomach a little.
I dragged Rex along for moral support, which I had mixed feelings about to begin with. Dad is warming up to Rex but not at the rate I was hoping, and I knew having them in the house together would be touchy. But, I didn’t want to go alone. I wanted someone’s hand to hold, just in case, so he was my guy.
I could barely eat the dinner Linda had prepared, and I heard none of the conversation (mostly wrestling talk). Then, when we’d cleaned the kitchen and went to sit in the living room, I told him.
I just blurted it out because WHAT ELSE DO YOU SAY? There is no easy way to give this news.
He stood up in his chair, stared at me. Then walked from the room, stormed outside. He stood outside, in the cold for a good ten minutes, Elliot, stewing. Swearing. Lots of swearing—I cannot imagine what the neighbors thought.
Dad wouldn’t look at me when he finally came back inside. He asked one thing: “Who did this?” If looks could kill, Rex Gunderson would have been a dead man.
“Not him,” I said.
“Not me! Don’t hurt me!” Rex had his hands up in the surrender position, and if it wasn’t so sad, I would have laughed so hard.
“It’s that roommate of yours, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yes, but I love him.”
“Love.” He snorted. “How is that working out for you? Didn’t that boy move out?”
He was being mean, but I don’t blame him. This is not what he had planned for me. I think if he had known this is how me moving here was going to turn out, he never would have had me come. Never in a million years…
“Obviously you’re going to move back home.”
“I’m not. Right now, I can make it on my own.”
“Because I’m paying your rent.”
“Dad…”
“You have no job, no degree, and your roommate got you pregnant. You are moving home.”
At that moment there was no arguing with him, but for now, I’m still in your house. My house.
We’ll see what happens in a few more months.
I miss you,
Anabelle
Dear Elliot,
It was great hearing your voice on the phone last night. Sorry I sounded so tired—that’s happening a lot lately. I know you bought your own copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Did you know they have websites where you can track your pregnancy progress and read forums? Don’t know if there are any dads lurking among them, but if you’re ever curious, take a peek.
I go on them a lot, mainly to find other young women in my situation, always searching for…something. Normalcy, I guess. I wonder if my life will ever be normal after this.
After the baby is born.
I wonder every day what I’m going to do in the spring—probably get a job and put the baby in daycare. I would rather date that douchebag Eric Johnson than ask Linda to babysit.
It’s important that I do this myself.
It might have been harsh when my mom told me I had to deal with the consequences myself, but she was right. I’ll worry about my plan tomorrow though, I’m so so tired. **yawn** Madison and I have been watching movies together at night, just like you and I would. She crawls into bed with me sometimes, and we watch our shows. I like not being alone—that big bed is lonely.
She and I have been talking about it, and while she really loves me, I don’t think she wants to stay living with me once this baby comes. She likes sleep, LOL. I feel bad but totally understand. Who could blame her?
Anabelle
Elliot,
Well, it’s finally happened. I’m up to two cups of steaming hot chocolate a day. I’m officially addicted! Guess there are worst things to crave, like McDonald’s in the middle of the night, or ice cream. I read that lots of women crave apples—why can’t I want fruit?! It’s so much healthier, but I suppose cocoa is harmless enough, yeah?
Only ONE time this week did I ask Rex to run and fetch me potato chips. Fine, and French onion dip. Seriously though, you can’t eat one without the other, and I was craving it so bad. He must think I’m so gross, I ate almost that entire bag myself—don’t know if that’s something I should be putting in this diary, but I’m trying to be honest.
Nothing says honesty like getting drunk on chips and dip.
My dad and Rex have had a reckoning of sorts, and they’re finally getting along, better than they did when Rex was working for the team as the manager. He and I went over again this weekend, and he helped my dad rake the yard then we all had dinner, mashed potatoes and gravy and OH MY GOD, IT WAS SO GOOD. Did you know Rex is from Iowa, too? He grew up not too far away, and his mom sent me a few bags of really good hot chocolate mix and marshmallows last time he went home. It was so sweet and it is SO GOOD.
Crap, I just realized this entire letter has been about food.
Promise that’s not all I do, LOL. It’s just the only thing I talk about.
I’m not even that big yet. You still can’t tell I’m pregnant, at least not from the back. Maybe from the side, if you’re looking for the bump. I’ll attach a picture.
Love,
Miss you.
Anabelle
Dear Elliot,
I had to break down and buy a new, long puffy coat. My one from last year no longer fits. Thank God I’ve been saving money, because holy cow staying warm is expensive. I’ve been searching for a part-time job, on campus if I can manage it, for some extra spending money. Storing it away like a squirrel.
There is one job that sounds perfect. It’s in the registrar’s office and carries some actual responsibility, which would be nice.
Yesterday I finally had someone ask if I was pregnant, so I guess you CAN tell, LOL. I was taking off my jacket in a contract law class and one of my classmates (a guy) was sort of checking me out from head to toe. When he got to my stomach his whole expression changed. He goes, “Whoa. You’re not knocked up, are you?”
I don’t think I was embarrassed, exactly, more caught off guard because I wasn’t ready for it. I should probably start preparing myself for more of those reactions. Of course he was horrified; we’re in college—who the hell wants to be pregnant? I was his walking, talking, living nightmare. Bet he went home and thanked Jesus he’d never slept with me.
Rex said I should forget about it and that the guy is an idiot, but I thought about it all night, and here I am writing about it, so it must have really bothered me, right? Rex was just being sweet, as usual, trying to take my mind off it.
Last night I caved and let him rub my feet. It felt so good I almost fell asleep while it was happening. I went to his place and instead of going to the movies like we’d planned, we ended up taking it old school and renting a few. Nothing like the early 2000s to bring back a flash of old memories…not to mention that foot rub.
I should totally angle for another one soon—it was bliss.
Have a great weekend. I won’t be around—Madison is springing for a hotel room in the city and we’re going to do some holiday shopping. My goal is to stay off my phone.
Talk soon,
Anabelle
Dear Elliot,
You know, I haven’t wanted to bring this up but it’s been weighing on me. When a woman is twenty weeks pregnant, they can find out if their baby is a girl or a boy, and my obstetrician asked if I wanted to find out. I don’t want to tell you because I know you wouldn’t want me finding out without you, and I know you wouldn’t want Rex to come to the appointment with me.
Madison is no help anymore. She is all over the place, freaking out about final exams, which I should be doing, too, but for whatever reason, I’m retaining EVERYTHING. I swear, this baby is giving me superpowers—I’m soaking up information like a sponge, retaining everything they’re teaching in class. I could recite legal terms blindfolded—next time you call, let’s see if I can actually do it. I’m going to be the best friggin’ lawyer.
If I ever have time to become one. Haha.
It’s freezing here, but I won’t talk to you about that. I saw on the news last night Michigan is getting slammed with bad weather. Eight inches of snow in one night?! That’s crazy. Do you ski? You’re in the perfect state for it. I used to go when I was a teenager, but never when it was below twenty degrees. Probably because one year, I stayed out in the cold too long and one of my big toes got frostbite. Was that too much information?? LOL, it seemed relevant to the conversation.
Back to the point, I’m dying to know if it’s a girl or a boy. How do you feel about that? How do you feel about not being here?
Rex said you probably wouldn’t care since you’re not here anyway, but I have no desire to add that to the list of things I already feel guilty about.
Anabelle
Elliot,
I felt it kick yesterday for the first time.
A real kick, not a flutter. It startled me. I was in class, taking notes (remember my superpowers?), focused on the professor’s lecture when it happened. My hand flew to my stomach and I held my breath. I know it sounds dramatic, but it kind of was. It’s all becoming so real now that I’m showing and can feel movement. It’s surreal. I feel big as a house even though I know I’m not, not like I will be in January or February.
Did I tell you your mom reached out to me? You should have warned me! Not that I mind because I don’t—of course not. She called and was so sweet it made me cry (everything does lately, so that’s nothing new, haha). She asked a bunch of questions about myself, how I felt, and wanted to know when she could meet me. I’ve never been so relieved after a phone call in my entire life, Elliot, I almost passed out, holding my breath when I heard the sound of her voice. She introduced herself as Baby Gramma, LOL. Seriously, she was so funny and nice. So, thank you for giving her my number. I’d hug you right now if I could.
When do you come home? I hope the weather cooperates.
I worry about you each and every day.
Miss you so much (and that’s not just the hormones talking),
Your baby mama
Elliot,
I had lunch with your mom and sister, Beth, today. Did they tell you? God, I was so nervous. I may or may not have been sick in the bathroom before leaving the house (Spoiler alert: I vomited). Why do you suppose I was more panicked meeting your family than I was telling my dad? I wasn’t even as scared to tell you, but I freaked out when I arrived at the restaurant and it took forever for me to walk inside.
That’s weird, isn’t it?
We met halfway between your hometown and Iowa City, at a cute little diner. Your mom held me and we both cried before we sat down at the table. I ordered breakfast for lunch and a white soda to calm my stomach then just picked at my food—I WAS SO NERVOUS!!!!
Your sister rubbed my stomach a million times and must have called me ‘adorable Anabelle’ at least a dozen. Your mom tried to take a few selfies and I wonder if she sent them to you.
They brought me a couple gifts, which made me all emotional. A pretty cream-colored baby blanket and a onesie with little yellow ducks. It was so sweet, Elliot, and I think your mom would like to come with me to a few doctor’s appointments. They feel horrible that you’re so far away, but we all agree it’s the best place for you. It was reassuring to know they’re going to be in my life from now on, too.
The more pregnant I become, the more sentimental I am, wanting to be surrounded by people I love and care about. I crave it more than I crave hot chocolate with whipped cream! Madison and Rex and my parents, and now your mother and sister, too.
Speaking of my dad—he’s calling practice early tonight and coming jogging with Rex and me around campus, which we’ve been doing so I can stay in shape. Don’t worry, my doctor said exercise is the best thing for me. **wink** Anyway, Dad found out I’ve been going and offered to come along. I don’t know how far he’ll be able to jog without passing out, but he’s going to try.
He has a newfound respect for Rex and as odd as it is, they’ve become friends. I think he likes having another guy around the house when we drop by.
I’m counting down the days until your Christmas break.
Anabelle