Page 87 of The Coach

She gives me a funny look. “Yeah, I know. It’s just…My uh…” what do I even call Ivy? “My girlfriend is a teacher. Teachers don’t make enough. It’s ridiculous.”

“Well then. Lucky she has you.” The old woman has a little twinkle in her eye.

“Well, yeah. I hope.”

“You hope?”

“It’s…it’s complicated.”

I just hope she wants me, I think.

The old woman picks up a zucchini and inspecting it like it holds the answers to the universe. “Complicated, huh? That’s just a fancy way of saying ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.’”

I huff out a laugh, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “That obvious?”

She tosses the zucchini in her cart. “Son, I’ve been married for fifty-two years. Trust me, none of us know what we’re doing.”

I nod, glancing back at the overpriced cucumbers. “Good to know.”

She eyes me, amused. “So, you’re out here buying groceries for a woman you’re not sure wants you?”

I roll my lips together, exhaling through my nose. “Something like that.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Hotshot,” she says, leaning in a little. “A man who buys a woman food? That’s a man who wants to stick around.”

That throws me. I wasn’t expecting some kind of cosmic grocery store wisdom today.

But she’s right. I wouldn’t be standing in the produce aisle stressing about organic vs. non-organic fruit if I didn’t want to be there for Ivy. If I didn’t want to figure this out.

She pats my arm like I’m some lost puppy and wheels her cart away.

I stare after her for a second, then grab the damn cucumber and toss it in my cart.

It’s time to see Ivy.

I pull into the small lot outside her apartment. It’s a different location from the one I went home to back in May. She must have moved.

I kill the engine, gripping the wheel as I take in the sight of her place.

So this is why I couldn’t find her last time. She moved.

It’s a cozy little building, nothing fancy. A string of lights is draped across the small porch, and there’s a bike leaned against the railing. Her bike, I assume. The place suits her—warm, inviting, practical.

But it’s small.

Not in a bad way, but smaller than I’d like for her. Smaller than she deserves.

Then, like the universe is trying to knock me flat on my ass, I see her.

She’s walking toward the door, holding a paper bag against her hip, keys in hand, completely unaware of me sitting here.

And fuck.

The dress she’s wearing—a light brown, patterned thing that moves with her—makes my throat go dry.

She’s gorgeous. Absolutely, stupidly gorgeous.

And I hate that I even have the thought, but she’s here. Alone. In an apartment that suddenly feels too damn small for a woman carrying my child.

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