Page 79 of The Coach

Me: I guess that makes two of us

As soon as I hit send, I drop my phone onto my nightstand and fall back against my pillows, exhaling hard.

The room is quiet, still, except for the soft hum of my ceiling fan.

But my mind?

It’s a mess.

I press a hand to my stomach—a habit now, one I don’t even think about.

Four months in, and I still wake up some mornings forgetting that this is real.

That there’s a tiny human growing inside me.

That my entire life has changed.

And now, so has his.

I let out a slow breath, staring up at the ceiling.

I shouldn’t let this get to me.

Shouldn’t let a simple text—Kinda miss seeing you—turn my chest into a tangled knot of feelings I have no business having.

Because this isn’t about us.

It’s about the baby.

It’s about doing the responsible thing.

It’s not about the way I still feel the ghost of his touch.

Not about the way his voice still echoes in my head.

Not about the way I’m suddenly thinking about what he’s doing right now, and if he meant that text the way I think he did.

I groan, rolling onto my side, pulling the blanket higher over me.

I need to stop this.

Stop overanalyzing. Stop hoping. Stop letting Jackson Knox get into my head.

But as I close my eyes, my fingers brush over my phone.

And before I can stop myself, I check the screen one more time.

Just in case.

Just to see.

By Tuesday morning, I’m running on nerves.

And missing the caffeine I’m now not supposed to have.

I barely slept last night. I kept rereading Jackson’s text, letting it sink into my skin like it meant more than it probably did.

And now, I’m paying for it.

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