Page 70 of Mismatched

Her mouth drops open as she rounds the corner.

There isn’t really much to see yet, but it’s already dramatically different. I pulled the desks away from the walls and moved some things out to the garage. Then I took the few pieces of art off the dingy yellow walls and gave the whole room a coat of primer.

“You’ve been busy,” she says.

I grin. I waited a whole week after we first talked about it, but we’re so close to the second trimester. It seemed like I could at least paint. I indicate a selection of samples stuck to the wall by the light switch. ”This is just the base coat. We still need to pick colors. I was thinking maybe blues and grays, like these here. Unless you prefer a warmer palette?”

“Oh.” She turns in a circle, like she’s catching up to my vision. “Yeah, I guess we should probably decide...”

I indicate the three colors I’ve been leaning toward. “Charcoal Linen, White Dove, and Pike’s Peak Gray make a pretty neutral color palette, but what do you think?”

Lydia follows where I’m pointing, scanning the colors for a couple seconds. “Uh... you pick what you like.” She shrugs. “I’m good with anything.”

My heart sinks. She steps toward the door like she’s trying to retreat, but I place my hand on her arm. “Hey. I know I came on way too strong the last time we talked about this. It’s... well, it’s an adjustment for both of us. But I thought this might be fun to do together.” I gesture around the room. “Just painting. We can hold off picking out furniture and...”

She fixes her eyes where my hand rests on her arm, and for a second I think she’s going to lean in, share the moment, let me fold her into my arms. But she steps away. “Sorry, it’s been a long day and I’m really tired. Maybe we could talk about it... later?”

I look around the room. Thirty minutes ago, it had been easy imagining a crib, changing table, maybe a rocking chair. Now I can’t manage to see anything but unpainted walls. I follow her into our bedroom, unable to channel my feelings into anything other than irritation.

“Later? So like, maybe when the baby arrives?”

She slumps to the bed, falling back against the pillows, and my eyes inevitably land on her stomach, searching the contours of her oversized gray hoodie for any outward sign of what’s to come. Does she look a little rounder, or is that just her clothes?

“Anton, it’s still not even the second trimester. Do we need to talk about this now?”

“You’re eleven weeks,” I say stiffly.

“Which means there’s twenty-nine more weeks to plan,” she says, though it seems like her voice wavers on the number.

I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath. “It just seems like we should be able to find something we could focus on. Celebrate. Together.”

“Sure,” she says, sounding annoyed herself now. “We can do that. How about we celebrate... let’s see, I think I got through my first whole day without feeling like I wanted to barf.”

I frown, a low ache spreading in my chest as she sits up and unzips her hoodie. I knew Lydia and I were on different wavelengths when I first suggested having a baby, but I was sure, at some point, it would help bring us together.

She glances at my face and sighs as she pulls her arms free of her sleeves. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, Anton. It’s been a long week.”

I sink to the bed beside her, recalling what she said the other day about not being able to escape pregnancy. Then I do my best to set paint colors and trimesters aside in my mind. “It’s okay. How are you feeling?”

She winces slightly at my question, then trails her eyes over me with a strange expression. “I don’t know, honestly. Different... weird.”

“How so?”

She slips out of her shoes and socks. “I really have been feeling better. Not as nauseous or gross. But there are other things... changes.” Her eyes trace over me in an unfamiliar way, and I swear she runs her tongue over her lips. The air thickens between us.

Then she tears her gaze away and rises from the bed.

I furrow my brow, looking her over, searching for some clue about what she means. But then she starts tugging at her next layer of clothing.

“You know, I could really use a shower. That might help a lot.”

I open my mouth to ask what she wants for dinner, not wanting to lose sight of the nutrition she needs, but the words die on my tongue as she pulls her shirt over her head.

The last week or so, I have been eyeing Lydia’s midsection, watching for any sign of a bump. Something I could see and touch, that might make this all feel more real. For both of us. But her stomach has stayed maddeningly flat. And since she hasn’t been feeling well, I’ve been trying to give her space. The last time I saw her fully undressed was two weeks ago, the night things went sideways after her orgasm. But suddenly, there is something noticeably different about her body.

“What?” she asks, noticing my stare.

“Uh, nothing.” I swallow, shifting as my dick stirs in my jeans. “Did you um—did you get a new bra?”

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