Page 56 of Mismatched

“Lydia? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

I shake my head, though now I do feel like I might throw up. Had I felt nauseous before I took the tests? I can’t remember. Or is that something that just kicks in once you confirm you’re knocked up?

He steps into the bathroom, reaching for me, but then I see his gaze flicker over the items scattered across the counter. The box of pregnancy tests he purchased last month. The carefully unfolded instructions, and the two plastic strips, lying side-by-side, with their matching not-even-a-little-faint pink lines.

He freezes, turning to look at me. Clearly registering exactly what I’m scared for him to know. “Is that...” He swallows. “Are you...?”

The pure, lilting joy in his voice amplifies the knot of guilt in my stomach, unleashing my floodwall of tears. I cover my face with my hands, as if that might block any of this from being real. And then he’s folding me into him, arms encircling me. Holding me, whispering excited reassurances in my ear while I utterly lose my shit.

“I don’t think I’m ready for this, Anton!” I sob. “I don’t want to get sick. I don’t want my body to change. And we’re finally doing so well. What if this ruins everything?”

“Shh,” he says, stroking my hair. “It’s going to be amazing, Lydia. You’re going to be amazing. You don’t need to worry about any of those things. I’m going to help you through it—we’ll do this together.”

He continues to rock me in quiet celebration in our cramped bungalow bathroom, while snot and ugly tears pour out of my face. “What, are you going to hold back my hair while I puke?”

“Yes,” he says quickly, then chuckles. “If that’s what you need. And I...” He hesitates, clearly searching for some other way to be useful as a will-never-be-pregnant male. “I’ll clean the bathroom every day so it’s a nice place to be sick.”

This makes me snort, and though it’s devoid of humor, it seems to set him at ease. I guess I should probably be charmed that he wants to take on some responsibility. But despite his reassurances and promises to be a team, I can’t help feeling like I’m facing this by myself. When it comes down to it, he won’t be the one dealing with nausea. His body will stay god-like while mine gets huge and misshapen. He won’t have to think twice about anything. And though I’m sure he’ll be there to cheer me through birth, I’m the only one who can take on that pain.

I raise my gaze to his, trying to think of some way to put these doubts into words. To make him see I’m the literal vessel and there’s nothing he can really do but promise to change every single stupid diaper when this is over. Except when I look at him—he is actually glowing. Like, I’ve never really understood why people say that to expectant mothers, but that’s the only way I can describe my husband’s face right now. And because I hate myself for not sharing that feeling with him, my eyes refill with tears.

“I—I’m not sure I can do this,” I sob.

“You’ll do amazing, Lydia. How could you not?” Anton says, but I think he’s still talking about pregnancy and I’m too scared to even say what I’m really afraid of. Because he clearly thinks I’m capable of being like his mother when everything points to me turning into mine.

“I didn’t think it would happen so fast,” I say, and this at least is the truth. Last month gave me a false sense of security. He’d wanted to get me pregnant, we’d tried, but when it didn’t happen... I know people who have been trying to get pregnant for years. But for the life of me, no one seems to talk about it happening on the second try. “I’m just a little shocked.”

“Me too.” He wipes his hand over his face, and I turn at the quaver in his voice. Is he having doubts too? Is he as freaked out as me? But then he looks at me, beaming. “This might be the best thing to ever happen.”

I narrow my eyes, unable to hide my skepticism. “I’ll have to get back to you about that.”

He laughs, and I gasp when he scoops me into his arms and carries me into our bedroom, cradling me like a treasure. The man works out like it’s his lifeline, but I am not exactly petite, so I’m always amazed at how easily he can toss me around. And though I show no outward sign of my new “condition,” my body already seems bigger. Heavier. More awkward.

“How are you feeling? Seriously?” he asks, laying me gently back against the pillows.

I press my lips together, not interested in ruining the moment for him, but I also want to tell the truth. So I focus on physical symptoms. “Not that different, really. A little tender. Maybe tired.”

He clasps my hand in his. “How about we stay in tonight?”

I nod, my heart flooding with appreciation because he knows me so well. A few hours ago, I had been looking forward to going out, flirting and enticing each other through dinner. I was prepared to come home, receive all of his attention, and in turn, focus all of mine on him. And while it’s been wonderful, learning new ways to please each other, feeling so connected these last few weeks. It has also been a lot of work. And I’ve learned enough about myself to know I won’t get there at all tonight.

Anton slips off my shoes and tucks the covers up around me, somehow knowing just what I need. I close my eyes, thinking he’s going to lie down with me, but instead, he rises from the bed. “How does stir fry sound—peanut chicken?”

I shake my head, surprising myself when I wrinkle my nose. That’s one of my favorite dishes, but for some reason it doesn’t sound at all appealing. “Maybe just a salad?”

“Anything you want,” he says, backing toward the door. But then he hesitates, looking back at me with a strange expression. He comes back over, sinking next to me on the bed, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to touch me and it’s all I can do not to pull away. I mean, it’s not like he can knock me up again. But the last thing I feel right now is sexy.

Instead of reaching for my body, tracing fingers across my skin or searching under my clothes, he leans in and lays a gentle kiss on my stomach, just below my navel.

“I love you,” he says softly. But for the first time in our relationship, I’m not sure it’s directed at me.

I place my hand over the spot where his lips touched my belly, biting down on my lip. A cold sweat breaks over my skin, and I try to decide if I’m jealous or scared. Either way, I hope he can’t tell.

“Stay here and relax,” Anton says. “I’ll bring you dinner.”

My relief unwinds as he moves to leave, but when I see him in the door, phone in hand, I call him back.

“Anton?”

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