by Sara Ney
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 s
ighs, 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 th
ere 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.