Page 61 of Mismatched

I wonder briefly if this is a question I’ll just have to get used to. I’ve been asked multiple times today by every person who knows I’m pregnant. “Tired,” I say, honestly.

His hands drift down below my belly button, lingering there protectively. But I’m surprised when I find myself wishing they’d wander elsewhere. Not because I’m aroused at all, actually. Sex has hardly crossed my mind since I took the test last week. What I miss is how much closer we felt with all that physical intimacy.

“Why don’t you take a bath or something?” he says in a low voice. “Are you still not hungry?”

“I could eat a little something,” I say truthfully.

He straightens, sliding around to face me. “Then I’ll fix you a little something.”

I look up, and his eyes are so warm, so full. My gaze flickers to the ultrasound images, and I bite my lip, glancing down at my stomach. “Oof. There’s a picture and everything. I guess this is really happening.”

His face seems to glow, and I home in on that, hoping some of it will transfer to me. Not being excited is starting to feel kind of... wrong. I’m worried he’s going to notice.

“It just doesn’t seem real yet,” I confess. “Maybe it would actually help if I was throwing up.”

He snorts. “Careful what you wish for.”

I laugh, closing the space between us and laying my cheek against his chest, wishing we could stay like this forever. Just the two of us. Finally, however, one of the pregnancy symptoms that’s become hard to ignore forces me to let go. “I really need to pee.”

He squeezes my hand. “I’ll make us a salad. Sound okay?”

I nod. But once I’m in the bathroom with the door closed, I stand there for a minute, studying myself in the mirror. I really don’t look any different. Maybe my breasts are a little fuller. But I could just be retaining water from too many potato chips at lunch. Ugh, it’s not like I want to look pregnant. The longer I can go without people asking me about it, the better. I’m not even looking forward to new clothes. I just want to fit into my old ones.

Staring at my midsection, it’s impossible to even imagine something growing in there. Is this a message from the universe? Don’t get too attached, because it isn’t going to last? Or am I just unable to nurture, somehow? Not cut out for it. Like my own mother.

I close my eyes, desperate for something else to focus on, and my mind easily slips to the Pooches. Henry. I will have to tell him about this—but that can wait until I’ve dealt with my family. I frown, realizing I’ll probably have to go along with all of his ideas now. He barely takes me seriously as a business partner as it is. I doubt that will improve after the birth, with a burp rag draped on my shoulder. This is what happens to women when they start families. Which is one reason I’ve been reluctant to do it.

But then I think of Marisol, efficiently conducting business with her toddler in tow. No one else calls the shots for her. She doesn’t even really have a husband helping with her kid. I pull out my phone, tempted to give her a call, beg her advice.

Only something makes me hesitate.

If I talk to her now, and anything happens in the next few weeks... that would be even more complicated. She’d be concerned, maybe upset. I don’t want to burden her with that. This is why the doctor said people wait to share pregnancies until twelve weeks.

The one person I could, probably should confide in is Caprice. But when I think about calling her up with this news, her voice echoes through my head. For God’s sake, don’t have a baby if that isn’t what you want.

I chew my lip. This is what I want—what Anton and I both want—a future together. And though he said we didn’t have to start a family, it’s clearly what he needs. I’m pretty sure Caprice still thinks I should have left Anton after Unmatched. But if I’ve learned anything about marriage over the last eight years, it’s that it takes a lot of work, from both sides. I just wish I could think of a way to explain that so she won’t be disappointed in me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Did you drink all the rest of the coffee?” I ask, setting my mug down in front of our cold, empty Mr. Coffee. “I only got one cup.”

“I didn’t make a full pot,” Anton says. He’s not looking at me, unloading a couple of grocery bags on the table. At seven a.m. I blink at him, trying to comprehend his actions separately from his words, but it’s like my wheels are spinning, stuck in my empty mug.

“Why?” I finally ask, unable to come up with a single reasonable explanation aside from a nationwide coffee shortage.

“I was doing some reading, and it’s recommended that pregnant women limit themselves to one serving of caffeine per day.” He reaches into one of the bags in front of him. “I thought we could try this?”

He’s holding a small red package, and I make out the word decaf emblazoned across the front before my eyes cut back to his face. He seems to realize his timing is crappy, because he quickly adds, “I only allowed myself one cup too. Whatever restrictions you have, I’m also taking on.”

I look from him to the coffee pot, biting back a remark about his nobility. “What exactly are the health risks of coffee to pregnant women?”

“Caffeine is linked to miscarriage and low birth weight, among other things,” he recites in that irritating Professor Google tone. He produces a piece of paper and sticks it to the fridge with a couple of magnets. “I printed out a list of pregnancy superfoods we can use as a yes-guide. It also gives a rundown of no-foods.”

“No-foods,” I repeat in a deadpan tone.

He pulls out a pack of bran muffins that truly look like rocks and presents them to me with a medley of berries and a cup of yogurt.

“Oh. Are you nauseated?” he asks when I don’t reach for any of them.

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