Page 59 of Mismatched

“Dr. Sharma,” I say hastily, stopping her on her way out the door. “Is it okay to um... well, can we...”

“Have sex?” the doctor asks, a smile tugging at her lips. My face goes hot. I had hoped I wasn’t that obvious. “As long as everyone’s feeling good, go ahead and have fun.”

The door closes, and I turn back to Lydia with a stupid grin. But she’s already off the table, half dressed, pulling up her shorts under the gown. I wait till she’s wrangled back into her bra and tank top, and when she finally turns and picks up her purse, I open my arms.

“I can’t believe this is real,” I say, pulling her close.

She brings her arms up to return the hug, but stays quiet.

“Hey.” I pull back to look at her. “Everything okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry, I was just thinking over what she said about twelve weeks.”

My brows draw together. “She said not to worry about it.”

“Yeah,” she says, though her voice is uncertain. “I just think, like she said, maybe we should keep this to ourselves until then.”

I stare down at her. “I’m not sure that was a suggestion.”

She shrugs. But when she looks up at me, her eyes are pleading, like this is important to her.

“Okay.” My shoulders drop. “It’s only four more weeks.”

She buries her face in my neck and lets out a deep sigh. And when she pulls back, she’s smiling for real, glowing and beautiful. Carrying our child. And it’s impossible to think about anything else.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Anton wants to get dinner on the way home from the doctor’s office to celebrate, but I claim nausea. Even though I haven’t had much of that particular pregnancy symptom so far. Guess it would serve me right if it started for real now. I’m just not feeling very celebratory. More like bloated and uncomfortable. I’ve never had six-pack abs like my husband, but my stomach is still as flat as it ever was. But all my pants feel tight. Even my bras are fitting snug. And I’m so tired. What I want more than anything is to take a hot bath, put on my striped pajamas, and read a good book in bed.

But just as he climbs out of his truck in the driveway behind me, my phone rings.

“Oh God. It’s my mom.” I cover my face. I can’t think of anyone in the world I want to talk to less at this moment.

Anton grimaces on my behalf. But, noting my paralysis, gently offers direction. “You don’t have to tell her anything. We agreed—not till twelve weeks. But see what she wants or you know she won’t stop calling.”

He’s right about that. I follow him up the front steps, swiping the screen and putting her on speakerphone as he unlocks the front door.

“Lydia, where have you been?” my mom harps through the receiver. “I called an hour ago and you didn’t answer.”

I open my mouth and almost say I was in a doctor’s appointment, but catch myself before walking into that trap. “Sorry, set my phone down on silent. Must’ve missed it.”

Heartthrob dances around us through the living room. I left him home today because of the appointment, and now he’s insistent we make up for it, so Anton gets on the floor and pretends to steal his toy from him.

“Well, I’m calling because you have got to give me an answer about Thanksgiving. It isn’t polite to leave the hostess hanging like this.”

“Oh, sorry. I thought?—”

“Celia insists we have to construct the whole meal around nap time.” I can hear her eye-roll from four states away. “And when I asked her to make a pie, she said she’d buy one. Really, I’m trying to defer to her and Adam, being new parents and all. But you have to come balance out this nonsense.”

My throat goes dry. New parents indeed.

I swipe to my calendar app with rising panic, counting the weeks until Thanksgiving. I’ll be more than twelve weeks. Actually fourteen. I glance down at my stomach, trying to imagine what I’ll look like by then. Could I still hide it? Or... maybe I won’t need to. Maybe it won’t stick, I think, with a hefty amount of guilt.

Movement catches my eye, and I glance across the room to see Anton gesturing at me, giving me a thumbs up sign. I narrow my eyes, trying to understand what he means.

“You need to hurry up and figure out flights,” my mother goes on. “But I need to know so I can schedule manis for all of us.” She pauses. “Do you think I need to include Sarah?”

I snort. “It might be rude to exclude Celia’s mother-in-law, yes,” I say, filling my water bottle at the fridge.

---