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 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.