Page 64 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Rachel, I’m pregnant.”

And I throw up, only two beers in me. All over the dorm hallway floor.

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logan

I get that she doesn’t want to talk about it.

I understand.

But I want to talk about it.

Stella tried to help me with Rachel after she puked, but Rachel had enough energy to throw up a middle finger and tell her former friend to go away. I helped her clean up, rinse her mouth, change, and then we both climbed into bed. I propped her computer up on a chair and put on her favorite episode of The Office.

And neither of us said a word.

I know it wasn’t from drinking two beers over three hours—beers I never filled to the top. It was shock. Some bio-chemical reaction I’m sure Rachel could explain, if only she’d talk about it.

She was at her lab when I woke up this morning. She left me a text, having put my phone on silent so it didn’t wake me. I wish I knew whether it was considerate or calculated. And not in a mean way, but in order to avoid conflict. Because I think she knows what my biggest ask is.

Do you wish you were the one pregnant with Dalton’s baby?

It sounds ridiculous, even now in my head. Of course she doesn’t want that. It was just a big shock. A final blow after having been betrayed by two people she counted on. That has to be it.

Coach made weights optional this morning. Of course, the way he said it didn’t sound so optional. And the guys dragging their asses in hungover the day after Halloween look bitter about it.

“You done already?” Jax says, one of the rougher looking dudes hitting the weights as I’m wrapping up.

“Got up at six,” I say with a grin and wink.

“Fuck you,” he teases, punching my bicep while I wipe down my bench press bar. “Look at you acting like an adult. Maybe I should get a super smart girlfriend too.”

I chuckle, but the forced laugh shuts off when I turn my back to him and head into the locker room.

My smart girlfriend.

The unease in my chest lingered throughout my entire workout. And not only because of the conversation Rachel seems keen on avoiding. That formal ball she asked me to go to with her is this Saturday. Our game is at home and early enough, but Coach asked me to stick around for a while after the game. Specifically, for dinner. My numbers after coming back from injury have been more than solid. I’m sitting at nine TDs over the last three games with an average over a hundred rushing yards for the month of October. Not bad, considering the game on October first I was only really in for the fourth quarter. Those numbers might just land me a deal with a certain hydration beverage company.

I’m not sure what do to or if Rachel even wants to go to this ball thing. It hasn’t felt like this is about making Dalton jealous in a while. But now, she seems like the jealous one. And I feel like an insecure weakling.

We have to talk.

My mom brought my tux from my sister’s wedding when they visited. I have yet to pick it up from the cleaners, so I decide to avoid the hard conversation a little longer and head to the shop on the corner where it’s been for the last several weeks.

I’m digging through my glove box in search of the claim ticket when someone raps on my window. I hit my head on the lip of the dash as I jerk up, and it’s like I get kicked in the gut when I see who it is.

Amy smiles, then motions for me to roll the window down. I don’t smile at her. I’m still pretty pissed off that she made Rachel feel like shit. It’s my fault, though, for forgetting I took her to the gallery once.

I sigh, then reach for the window button, lowering it.

“Hey,” I grunt. My stomach muscles are shredded, and holding myself stretched across the console with one palm on the truck floor is giving me the shakes.

“Hey, yourself,” she says, attempting to be cute.

“Look, I have to find my ticket, and I’m in a hurry, so?—”

“Oh, yeah. You’re picking up your tux?” She holds up a dark green gown covered with plastic. I view it with dimmed eyes. How the fuck does she know so much? Like, that I have a tux here?

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