The Coaching Hours

“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.