How to Date a Douchebag_The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  I write:

  Dear Elliot,

  This is one letter I’m never going to send you, but I’m going to write it anyway, locked away in a diary no one but me will read or see. I have so much on my mind that’s been keeping me awake the past few days.

  There is no good way to tell you this. I’m just going to say it.

  I’m pregnant.

  God, I thought it would be easier to write the words, but it’s not, because now they’re in ink, forever, scrolled across these pages for me to read anytime I open this notebook.

  I’m pregnant. Pregnant.

  I have a really small baby bump that people are going to start noticing at some point, but thank goodness for yoga pants and sweatshirts. I wonder what you’d think about the bump. Would you freak out, or would you be as levelheaded as I think you would?

  Want to hear something crazy? I’m not as upset as I thought I’d be. I’m getting used to the idea of being a mom. A mom. I’m staring at that sentence, reading it over and over again. Crazy. Life is crazy, don’t you think?

  What’s even crazier than us being parents is Rex Gunderson. We’ve been spending all kinds of time together, believe it or not. He’s been great, considering he’s the first person who found out—not because I told him, but because he guessed. I always figured he was smarter than he let on, and he is.

  He’s also turning into an amazing friend, Elliot. We talk all the time and go to the café a lot. Last week we went for pedicures—he said it was practice for when my feet start to swell up. He’s such a nag, always on me about eating healthy. In a way, I think he needs a project now that he’s been fired from the team and could only find part-time work, but he genuinely likes me, too, and we’ve put the past behind us.

  You would absolutely hate it, LOL.

  My dad certainly does.

  I finally broke the news to Dad a few days ago about befriending Gunderson, and he was so mad, but I know he’ll come around. He’s going to have to. Madison has been really supportive, but Rex…I think I’m going to take him with me when I tell Dad and Linda about the baby. Our baby.

  I wish you were here.

  You were so easy to fall in love with, do you realize that?

  It’s killing me not telling you my news—our news—but I refuse to do it over the phone. You deserve to hear it in person, but now is not the time, and I cannot come there.

  I love you, and I’m proud of you.

  Love, Anabelle.

  AKA Your baby mama.

  Kidding, omg. But I have always wanted to say that. Haha.

  Elliot

  It’s been a shitty week, and the only thing getting me through is the countdown to winter break.

  I think about Anabelle nonstop, wondering if she thinks about me as much as I think about her. Today in class, I caught myself staring off at the wall twice, daydreaming instead of taking notes.

  Doodling on a loose-leaf sheet of paper, then finally, hand writing her a note in small, tidy penmanship.

  Ana. Annie. Anabelle.

  Guess what? I’m coming home for a family event soon, a banquet for my dad. Remember I told you about him? He’s a lawyer and every year, his firm hosts a big to-do. So, I’m coming home!

  I’m not going to tell you, I want it to be a surprise—I want to see the look on your face when I show up on your doorstep Friday night. I’m flying and get in late, so my ass will be seriously dragging.

  Dead on my feet will never have been more worth it.

  If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be coming back at all. I would skip the awards dinner altogether and give my parents an excuse about being busy, but they’re buying me a plane ticket and I’d be stupid to pass up the chance to see you.

  Michigan isn’t the same without my friends here, without you. Jesus, I lie in bed every night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I made the right decision. Logically, I know it is—my professors are incredible, and this internship is going to set me up after I graduate.

  Still, I have my doubts.

  That’s why I can’t wait to see you. I’m going to spoon the shit out of you in that big bed—I didn’t book a hotel, so I hope you don’t mind me crashing at your place. I just want to hold you.

  I hope you’ll let me.

  I miss the smell of your skin and the taste of your lips, and the way you back up into me in bed when you’re sleeping.

  Not to sound like a total pussy, but whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder wasn’t fucking around.

  I miss you like crazy.

  I love you.

  When class is over, I rise from the desk, crushing the letter I just wrote in the palm of my hand, wadding it into a ball. Toss it in the trash can in the corner.

  It goes in easy, the perfect basket.

  Score!

  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 tremblin
g. “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 hel
l 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.”