Page 62 of Mismatched

“Yes,” I lie, walking to the back door to let Heartthrob outside, suddenly anxious for a breath of fresh air. My bladder had me up at four a.m. contemplating my choices about this whole pregnancy thing. If he’s trying to make me feel less happy about it, he’s doing an excellent job.

When I turn back to the kitchen, he thrusts a package of ginger gummies at me and sets the kettle on the stove. “These are supposed to help. Do you want some mint tea?”

I grimace. For some reason, the thought of mint flavored tea actually does make me nauseous.

“I think I want a shower,” I say, heading for the hall. The faster I leave for work, the faster I can ignore all of this yes-no nonsense. But Anton is still pulling goodies from his grocery bag.

“Your appetite might not improve until the second trimester. But it’s important to take a prenatal vitamin every day, especially when you aren’t hungry.” He presents me with a large jar of gummy vitamins and stands there like Mary Poppins waiting for me to take my medicine.

“Will you be taking these too?” I snap.

“Huh?”

I grind my teeth. “Where did you say you got all this useful info?”

“Oh, I’ll show you.” He pulls up an app on his phone with a wide smile. “I made us a BabyBump account. It sends an email every week with tips and info, and lets us know how the baby is growing. See? It’s already the size of a raspberry.”

I glare pointedly at the untouched berries on my plate, but then he places the phone in my hand and I’m staring at an illustration that looks at first like a baby bird—until I notice the very human-looking head, arms, and legs. I scan down the email, eyes widening when I learn the creature growing inside me has apparently, at eight weeks, already formed all of its organs, and now has lips, a nose, and eyelids. I glance up to meet Anton’s gaze, wondering if it will have hazel eyes that match his.

But then I scroll down to the your body section of the email, which details, in startling accuracy, many of the ways I currently feel. I still haven’t thrown up, but I do feel nauseated. Exhausted. My breasts are so tender it hurts to just brush up against things. And I’m so freaking bloated and gassy I can’t imagine trying to squeeze myself into a pair of jeans. It explains, in the same cheery tone my husband has taken on, that all of these unpleasant things are part of the miracle growing inside me. The miracle I get to meet in only thirty-two more weeks!

I hand the phone back to Anton, but it isn’t until I see his expression that I register the tears running down my face.

“Lydia?” He stares, obviously caught off guard. There was nothing in that email that should’ve been read as anything but a total celebration.

Maybe that’s my problem. We agreed to this. We worked toward this goal together. But now that we’ve achieved it, celebrating is the last thing I want to do—I feel like I need a support group. Instead of a bombardment of info on the miracle I’m creating, I could use tips on how to cope with second thoughts. Feeling like your body is no longer your own. Or coming to terms with the unsettling idea that you’ve made a huge, huge mistake.

I thrust my hand out, opting to pretend I’m not obviously upset. “Give me some of those vitamins.”

He does as I ask, and I force myself to chew and swallow, glancing at the clock. It’s so freaking early, and I’m still dying for another cup of coffee.

“Shower,” is the only coherent word I form as I turn away from him, a wave of nausea trying to force the vitamins back up my throat as I fumble down the hall.

But the worst part is, while I’m officially miserable and feeling sorry for myself, I also feel guilty. For not having the reaction I know he expects. For not being happy and excited with him. A baby is literally the one thing he’s wanted. The thing that could hold us together, act like a salve after his mother’s death. And I am ruining it with my own selfish tears.

When I make it to our bedroom, I throw off my robe. Tossing it onto the unmade bed where it looks like a crumpled, huddled version of me. I yank off my blue-striped pajama top, then bottoms, throwing them toward the hamper and missing, then stomping over them on my way to the bathroom. To the shower where I doubt the water and steam will wake me up anything as well as caffeine.

But just as I reach the door of our bedroom, it fills with the tall, cut form of my husband. Anton stands there, drinking in my naked shape, his face impossible to read. My first inclination is to cover myself. My robe is across the room. But if he’d just move, I could duck into the bathroom and close the door. He doesn’t. He just stands there, looking. Scrutinizing me so closely, I shy away from his gaze. I don’t want him to see me like this. Bloated, unattractive, smeared with ugly tears.

I step back to grab the robe, but before I reach the bed he encircles me in his strong, steady arms. Holding me close against his body. Locking me to him in a warm but unyielding embrace. And it’s there, held in place so I can’t run from him, where I can’t do anything to hide or deflect or pretend this isn’t happening, that I fall to pieces in full-on sobs.

He must know—he has to. It’s written all over me. I thought I’d be okay with this, but I’m not. If he hadn’t already realized I’m not cut out to be a mother, it’s obvious now. And how can he not hold that against me?

I wait for him to say something. Sigh maybe. Express regret that he chose the wrong woman—on so many levels, we know now. But instead, he sinks with me to the bed, pulling me awkwardly into his lap. And he holds me. Until my tears subside.

When my shoulders have stopped shaking, he pulls a tissue from somewhere and waits while I dry my face and blow my nose. It’s cold in the room, and as I press closer to him for warmth, he shifts me onto the bed. Suddenly, I’m sure he’s going to tuck me under the covers, give me a kiss, perhaps, and get the hell out of here. As any sane man would, faced with a hormonal, sobbing, snot-fest first thing in the morning.

But once my head is settled on my pillow, he straightens, looming over me. His gaze makes its way over my body, but doesn’t rest on my stomach, like it has constantly the last week. There’s something different about this. Something familiar and hungry. My face heats, and I cross my arms over my naked form as I realize what he wants. Not long ago, I used to dread the way he’s looking at me. I was so uncomfortable in my own body, I couldn’t grasp what it could do for me—for us. Recently, I’ve grown more confident, even come to look forward to this. But I’m not feeling it right now. I just feel swollen and kind of gross. But as I move to cover myself, my husband takes hold of my wrists, gently shaking his head as he raises them above me.

“Please. Don’t hide from me.”

I look past him, at the ceiling. “Anton, I’m not?—”

He smothers my words with his lips. Then pulls back briefly, eyes flashing as he looks at me. And for the first time since those positive pregnancy tests upended our lives, I detect the barest tug of... something. Between my legs.

I try to lower my arms, intending to wrap them around his neck, pull him close, but he has them pinned to the sheets above my head. I squirm in his grip a little, but only manage to thrust my newly enlarged breasts toward his face. I’m not sure if it’s hormones or just the temperature of the room, but both my nipples stand up bright pink and erect. Anton’s pupils darken.

Still firmly holding me in place, he drifts down, running the flat of his tongue warm and delicious over each of my nipples.

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