Page 57 of Mismatched

He stops, expression glowy again as he looks back at me.

“Maybe let’s not tell anyone . . . just yet?”

His brows draw together, so I answer his question before he asks.

“I just thought um... I mean, I’m sure the tests are right. But we should probably get confirmation from a doctor. You know?”

He hesitates a second, then tucks his phone away and nods. “That’s a good idea. Okay, we’ll wait.”

I let out a long breath. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Of course,” he says, smile returning. “For now, it’ll be our private celebration. Just... the three of us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Six weeks of fucking. We’ve never done anything like it all the years we’ve been married. We never could have. Almost every single day, I either woke up hard and she rode me in the morning, or we were peeling off clothes the moment we walked in the door from work. The first week I was hesitant, wondering if she was going to pull back, lose interest. But she didn’t. It’s felt a bit like the honeymoon we never had. And it seems like my strategy fucking worked.

I glance at the clock. Our appointment with Lydia’s doctor isn’t for two more hours, but then we’ll know for sure. I was actually surprised she was able to get in so quickly. It’s only been six days since she took the home test. But when she said they had an opening, I promised I’d be there. I meant it when I told her we’d do this together.

I can tell she’s a little freaked out, but every time I look at her—I can’t even describe how it feels. Weird and fantastic. It sounds kind of primitive, but I just keep thinking there is a life growing inside her and I put it there. We did. Together. It certainly won’t fill the space my mother left when she died, but it fills my heart in a strange way, knowing there’s this new part of us on the way.

I get back to my office after a meeting just before four, and I’m about to gather my things and head out to our appointment, but I pause when Carl shows up at my door.

“Anton, I just wanted to say nice work this afternoon. We’re in good shape with the Castro account, due in large part because of how thorough you are with your projections.”

“Thanks, Carl. You know I like to cross my T’s and dot my I’s.”

“Indeed,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “While I have you, Derek and I have been discussing different space needs for the Springs office. I’d like you to drive down with me and look at some of the possibilities in the next week or so.”

It isn’t a question, so I just nod. “Of course. Should I coordinate schedules with Milo?”

“Let’s make it the two of us this time.” He gives me one of his broad smiles, then steps in and closes the door. “Anton, if you’re willing to take this on, I think we could discuss making you a junior partner.”

“That’s...” I set my keys down and swallow. “Thank you, sir.”

He grins. “I’m excited about this opportunity for you.”

“I am too,” I say, and I mean it. The last month or so has been a struggle, but I’ve been with Vesper since I got out of college and I’ve always tried to give Carl my best. “When do you think we might want to get off the ground?”

“Oh, it’s going to take some time,” he says. “Not before the new year. And Derek and I are still hashing out some organizational ideas, so realistically, we might be looking at spring.”

“Well, I can’t wait to hear more about it.” We shake hands, and I thank him again. But my enthusiasm fades as he leaves my office and I pick up my keys again. There was a time when being offered a junior partnership would have been the most exciting news I could’ve received. But it looks like there will be a lot of big changes coming this spring.

The address Lydia gave me for her OB/GYN is right next to Rose Hospital. It looks much like any doctor’s offices from the outside, but once I step through the door, the specialty is obvious. The waiting room is filled with women of all ages. Some aren’t obviously pregnant, but many are, and the only other guy in the room sits with a lady who looks like she swallowed two watermelons.

A receptionist behind the desk gives me a skeptical look. “Are you here for an appointment, sir?”

“Umm . . .”

“We’re here to see Dr. Sharma at four thirty—Lydia Richie?” my wife says, coming through the door behind me. I exhale, looking at her with a little thrill. Her presence gives me permission to be here, but also, I’m just plain excited.

While we wait for the receptionist to find Lydia’s name in the system, I take her hand and squeeze. She looks fantastic. We both came from work, and it’s still warm for September, so she’s in shorts and a tank top. But I guess some of the things people say about pregnancy must be true because she looks more beautiful than usual. It has been so hard to resist putting my hands all over her since I saw those positive tests—especially after spending the last several weeks the way we have. But she’s started complaining of nausea, and that she’s tired all the time, and I’ve tried to respect that. I’m not even sure it’s okay for us to have sex. I have a whole list of questions for her doctor.

“All right, we’ve got you all checked in. If you’ll just provide a urine sample,” the receptionist says, handing over a plastic specimen cup, “they’ll call you back in a minute.”

Lydia does as she’s asked, but when she comes back, she seems even quieter. After they bring us back to a room, take her weight and blood pressure, and ask the date of her last period, she still doesn’t say much. When they ask her to undress, I’m starting to feel useless, so I take her clothes and shoes, folding and tucking them neatly aside while she situates herself on the exam table.

“Nervous?” I ask once she’s settled in a gown with a paper sheet draped over her like a blanket.

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