Page 65 of Sexting the Coach
Iwake up to the sound of my phone vibrating on my bedside table, and at first, I reach for it, thinking that it might be Weston and this time, I might just give in. Answer. I’ve missed him, dreamed about waking up next to him. About him showing up here to the apartment. It’s like pushing on a loose tooth, craving that pain.
Missing him almost feels good, because it’s the closest I can get to being near him. If I can’t be around him in person, at least I can turn him over and over in my head. Wish that he was here.
Wish that I could answer the phone and hear his voice on the other end.
But I can’t—I can’t talk to him right now, because he’ll know right away that something is wrong. He’ll demand answers, and I’ll end up telling him the truth.
It doesn’t end up mattering, because the name on the phone isn’tWeston. It’sMom.And that’s a million times worse. I thought she and Dad were in Mexico, visiting one of his resort investments. That’s what they’re almost always doing, now. Traveling around and taking advantage of the fact that Dad put money into hospitality, so they get the best rooms and priority treatment.
“Hello?” I try to scrub any trace of how wretched I’m feeling from the tone of my voice, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that wanted her to see through it.
I’ve never had that kind of relationship with my mom. But I still yearn for it, for a mother who would be able to see my hurt even if I hid it away.
“Elsie,” my mother says, her tone cold. “Are you dying?”
“No, I’m just—” I clear my throat. “I have some sort of stomach bug. Been throwing up?—”
“Well, have you been to the doctor?” she cuts me off, sounding impatient, and I can imagine her looking at her nails on the other end of the line. “Did you figure out what the problem is?”
I know exactly what the problem is. I open my mouth to try and say something, but I just can’t get the words out.
“Because I got a call from Loraine,” my mother says, and it makes my stomach swoop. I know my parents pulled some strings to get me a spot with the Squids. That my mother and Loraine know each other. Maybe Karlee has been in touch with them, too, about how much work I’ve missed.
A full week.
I know I need to go back, but I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to go back to the arena, face Weston. Hide the truth from him. Keep from falling into his arms.
If there was ever a time for us to stage our “fake” break-up, it’s now. I need to put distance between the two of us.
But the thought of it makes my mouth taste like battery acid.
“…and she’s worried that it might affect your performance review. Obviously, being sick can’t be helped, but you should just weigh how you feel with how much you want that position next year.”
I blink, realizing my mom has been talking this entire time. My mind scrambles, trying to put together what she said, what my response should be.
“Yeah,” I croak, “I will. I’ll go to the doctor today.”
What are my parents going to think when they find out about the baby? I’ll have to lie, have to say it’s not Weston’s. In fact, I’ll probably need to relocate if I don’t want him finding out about it.
“Great,” Mom says, the sharp edge falling away from her voice. “I was already worried this thing with the coach was going to distract you, and you don’t need anything else going on right now. You need tofocus, baby.”
“Right,” I agree, rolling onto my back. Tears roll, hot and fast, down my cheeks. I wonder how to cross the weird, intangible block between my mother and me. What I need from her right now is compassion. I need to be able to tell her about what’s going on with me.
My mom and I used to be close. But after Drew got hurt, it’s like everything fell to pieces. Mom and Dad both got cold toward me, and I spent enough time avoiding my family altogether that now I feel a jolt of anxiety anytime they call.
“Elsie,” Mabel says, cracking open the door to my room the moment I end the call. She’s still going to work and reporting back to me that Weston has been in a foul mood. I’ve been trying not to think about it. “Who was that?”
“My mom,” I say, then the rest of the sentence is swallowed by the sobs that start to push through me, full-bodied and all-consuming, like a seizure of despair. Mabel comes in, crawling into the bed, holding me, running her hand over my hair.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says. I want to believe her, but I can’t. When I finally stop crying, the sobs subsiding and leaving behind a dry, hollow feeling, Mabel clears her throat and sits up, taking me by the shoulders.
“Come on,” she says, ushering me out of the bed. “We’re going to Trader Joe’s, and you’re getting whatever snacks you want.”
I want to cling to my bed, tell her no, beg to stay home. But snacks do sound good, and I know better than to tell Mabel no.
So, I get dressed, shuffle behind her, and leave the apartment for the first time in a week.
At first, when we pulled into the parking lot and I saw how busy the store was, I wanted to beg Mabel to turn around and take me home.
