And I’ll have to do it alone.
“Earth to Anabelle.”
I look up, not realizing I’ve just been staring into space, into my half-empty mug.
“Huh?”
“You looked lost there for a second.”
“That’s because I am.”
Rex sits back in the booth, reclining back on the navy blue seat, crossing his arms. “What’s going on with you? I don’t remember you being like this last year.”
“Like what?”
He waves a hand around in front of him, at me. “You’re so preoccupied. I know you hate my guts, but—”
“I don’t hate your guts, Rex. I’m just…” I inhale, taking a deep breath. “I found out some news this week that I’m preoccupied with. Sorry, it’s nothing personal.”
One of his sandy brown brows goes up. “What kind of news?”
“I’d rather…it’s private.”
Shit, why did I say that?
“Why?” He laughs. “Are you pregnant?”
I don’t laugh.
And I don’t answer.
I stare back at him, wide-eyed, worst poker face in the history of trying to keep secrets.
“Holy shit, Anabelle.” He breathes heavily. “Are you?”
I have nothing to say.
Which is enough.
“Jesus. I don’t know what to say,” he says. “I was just joking.”
I toy with the handle of my mug, scoffing. “Yeah, well.”
We sit silently in that booth for the next ten minutes, only the sounds of the café keeping us company. Waitresses collecting mugs and saucers, the door opening and closing. The music. The chatter. Even the clanking of the dishes piling up in the kitchen can be heard. The sound of the coffee grinder.
“I can’t believe you came out in public.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just meant, if I was a chick, I’d be balled up in the corner of my room, crying.”
“Believe me, I’ve had that pity party already.”
“When did you find out?”
“This week.”
“Wow.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Does the father know?”
“No. Not yet.”
He nods slowly, accepting this answer and not probing for a name.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Shit, and here I was blabbing away about engagement parties and how shitty my summer was. At least I haven’t knocked anyone up.”
His crude honesty puts a goofy smile on my face. “It’s okay. Your babble takes my mind off it.”
“Well, it’s not the worst thing to happen.”
I gape at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, a fucking baby? Babies are the shit, dude. I can’t wait to have one.”
My brow goes up. “You wouldn’t be upset if you found out some girl you were sleeping with was pregnant?”
He shakes his head. “I doubt it. Maybe at first I’d be like What the fuck, dude! because I’d be shocked, but after I thought about it, I’d probably be chill. It’s not like we’re in high school anymore, Anabelle. We’re old enough to procreate and successfully keep a human alive.”
That’s true.
I’m twenty-one years old and a senior in college, and Elliot is…
How old is Elliot? I don’t think we’ve ever talked about it.
I quietly do the math.
If he graduated at eighteen, spent four years doing undergrad, that would make him…holy crap, Elliot is almost twenty-three? Can that be right?
“What are you so worried about?”
“Everything,” I answer honestly.
How is Rex Gunderson not absolutely appalled by discussing this?
“Are you more worried about how people are going to react, or are you worried about actually having a baby?”
I’m deafened by my own silence.
His hands fold on the tabletop. “Okay, let me ask you this: are you worried the baby’s dad is going to freak out and disappear on you?”
I consider the question: am I concerned Elliot is going to ghost me when he finds out I’m expecting a child?
“Not really.”
“Are you worried your parents are going to disown you?”
I snort. “They’d never do that.”
“Are you scared you’re going to be cast out into the street, cold and alone, and you and your baby are going to starve?”
“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“No I’m not, Anabelle—these are legitimate concerns people have.”
“How would you know?”
“Haven’t you ever watched Teen Mom?”
“I’m not a teen mom!” I shout indignantly.
“My point exactly.” He pops a stick of gum, chomping down on it. “So what the hell are you freaking out about?”
“I never said I was freaking out.”
“Maybe not, but when I saw you in class today, you looked like you were about to barf all over my shoes.”
“I did not!”
“No lie. Pale as Casper the Friendly Ghost.” He’s back to leaning back in the booth. “You hungry? You should try eating.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re eating for two now.” He is such a know-it-all.
“Haha, very funny.”
“Have you been sick at all? My friend Adam knocked up his girlfriend our freshman year, and she tossed her cookies every morning like clockwork.”
Seriously? His questions and concern are making me want to cry. He’s being so sweet—so freaking sweet—and the fact that he isn’t judging me is an enormous relief.
It gives me hope that my other friends will be as supportive…my other friends from back home, who will have mixed reviews on my unexpected pregnancy.
It also gives me hope that I can do this, with or without Elliot in my life.
“I haven’t been sick—that’s why I didn’t know until now that I’m…” The word gets lodged in my throat. “Pregnant.”
“How far along are you, anyway?”
“Twelve weeks.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Damn Anabelle, pretty soon you’ll be able to find out if it’s a girl or a boy.” Pause. “Are you going to find out? I would.” He laughs.
“I don’t know.”
I don’t know anything.
“If you need me to come to any of your doctor’s appointments, let me know. I have so much fucking spare time these days, it’s stupid.”
“You do not want to come to my appointments.” I laugh, the thought of the whole thing making me almost hysterical.
“I’ll hold the diaper bag.”
“I don’t have a diaper bag.” I’m grinning like a fool though, imagining it—imagining Rex Gunderson trailing along beside me with a pink diaper bag strapped to his body.
Pink.
Girl.
I shake my head, banishing the thought.
“Not yet you don’t.” He winks at me, flipping his phone to check the time. “Shit, I have to go—I work in an hour.”
“Thanks for the hot chocolate, Rex.”
“Hey, no problem. You look like you needed it.”
“I did. It was just what I needed.”
“I probably needed it, too.”
I smile and it feels…
Good.
I can’t actually share my thoughts with Elliot.
Can’t call him on the phone and break the news. Doing it over the phone feels wrong. He deserves to find out in person.
I have so much on my mind, so many things to tell him—but if I do, will that weigh him down?
I sit down at the kitchen table with a journal, one I’ve had for ages that has never been completely filled, used to record my thoughts.
I crack it open, glancing through a few pages I haven’t looked at in months, the last entry from two years ago. I was dating this guy, Will, from college. We were in the same town, at different universities—and I scan a passage about him that I wrote after we broke up. “Will is someone I will definitely get over…not worth the tears, Anabelle. Chin up and move on.”