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For the first time, I see Coach looking lost and a little shell-shocked. He recovers quickly.
“Yeah. Sure. Here, let’s sit on the bench.”
We do. We sit at a respectable distance from one another, but I still feel sick. I want to punch him in the face. I hate feeling stupid, and I feel like he took advantage of me. I play with the hem of my shorts.
“Congratulations on Stephen Junior,” I blurt out. “And the Kia Rio.”
I can’t keep the anger from my voice, and you know what? Screw it. I don’t need to. He lied to me.
“Ah, so that’s what it’s about.” He scrubs his stubble with his knuckles, looking like he hasn’t slept all week. “You knew I was going to become a father, Emmabelle.”
“I didn’t know you’re still with her.” It’s weird even talking about it. I feel like a grown-up in a TV show. I’ve only started getting regular periods three months ago, so this is a bit out there.
“I wasn’t,” he says urgently, and I can tell by the twitch of his hands that he wants to gather me in his arms and demand my attention, but he doesn’t. “I haven’t been with her for three months. Brenda giving birth in Boston was always the plan. And the week she came back ahead of her due date … well, one thing led to another and we decided to give it another chance. For Stephen.”
“Did you sleep with her?” I ask. I don’t know what authority I have to ask him that.
He looks away, his jaw clenching.
I snort out a humorless laugh. “Of course you slept with her.”
“What was I supposed to do?” he asks through gritted teeth. “It’s not like my girlfriend puts out.”
His girlfriend. That’s what I was now. Even though I thought I’d feel good about it, all I felt was dull regret. How could I have been so stupid? To start this with him?
“I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not even sure I’m your harrier. But what I definitely am is out of here.” I stand up.
“Penrose,” he whisper-barks. “Sit your ass down. We’re not done yet.”
I do as I’m told, but this time—and this is the real kicker—not because I want to hear his lame excuses, but because I have to. He’s my coach. And now I’m starting to see the similarities between Locken and that geography teacher creeper.
“Look, this thing with me and Brenda … it’s not gonna last. It’s you I want. I’ve made that clear.”
“I don’t want to come between you and the mother of your child.”
As I say it, I realize it’s not only because I feel like a piece of flaming shit for doing what I did with him, a married man. This whole thing’s just lost its shine. Days ago, in the cafeteria, as I craned my neck to listen to crumbs of information about him and his wife from the lunch duty teachers, it dawned on me that this was all a huge mistake.
What kind of man sleeps with his student?
What kind of man cheats on his pregnant wife?
Not a worthy one, that’s who.
“You’re not coming between anything. I want you. I love you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week.” There’s a note of urgency in Coach’s tone. I swing my gaze to look at him but stand up from the bench nonetheless. It probably looks weird from afar, if someone sees us. Me walking away from him and not vice versa.
His love declaration falls flat.
“I’m sorry. I don’t love you back.”
“I know you do.”
“No, I don’t.” Truth is, I don’t know what I feel or don’t feel. I just know I’m in over my head. I have to untangle myself from the situation fast.
“This conversation is not over,” he warns me, getting up after me and looking around like a thief in the night before slipping out of someone’s window.
I turn my back on him and walk away, thinking, yes, it is.
The man was going to completely destroy me, and there was nothing I could do but watch him from a front-row seat.
I knew it the moment he put his hands on my stomach.
Baby Whitehall fluttered when it happened. It felt like butterflies stretching their wings for the very first time inside my belly.
The baby knew her dad had touched her for the first time and was reacting to him.
Everything happened so fast after that.
The kisses.
The love bites.
The skin-on-skin.
The secrets.
It felt like falling off a cliff.
Falling, falling, falling.
And still, not trying to grab onto anything to stop what was happening.
The deep end didn’t feel so deep when you never wanted to get out of it.
This was why falling in love was a dangerous game.
It gave you the worst thing a girl like me could have.
Hope.
The next evening, I skipped coming home early after I finished the paperwork at Madame Mayhem. I was in a weird mood. On edge.
