Page 84 of Mismatched

“Well, I wouldn’t say we made it out unscathed, but at least we’re home,” Anton says, echoing my thoughts. “How are you feeling?”

I exhale, stopping at a booth to pay for parking. Things have been awkward since last night. I appreciate the effort he’s making. “I think this one earned a place in my Top Ten.”

“Ouch.” We have informally ranked events with my family since college. The Top Ten is not a place of honor. “Even above Celia’s rehearsal dinner?”

“Yes.”

He chuckles, leaning back in his seat, and it doesn’t even sound forced. “Now we can share the news with everyone, at least. That’s a relief.”

My hands tense on the wheel, navigating the maze of roads from the Denver airport back to the highway. I have to admit, when I was planning out my Monday meeting on the plane, I hadn’t thought to put that on the agenda.

“Yeah . . . guess we’ll have to.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him flinch. Then he reaches over, placing a hand on my stomach as I drive. “Hard to believe we’re going to be parents. It’s starting to feel real.”

I swallow hard, squinting down the dark road. I’m not sure how to respond.

“Well...” he says, and now he does sound forced. “Who are you going to tell first?”

“I—” I take too long to answer. “I don’t know.”

Anton sort of snorts. I look over at him. “Or do you just not want to tell anyone ever?”

“What? Of course I do.” The words come out of my mouth with sincerity, but my tone is defensive.

He shifts in his seat, turning to face me. “I’m just trying to understand,” he says in a voice that doesn’t feel at all understanding. “Most people get excited when they’re expecting. You aren’t. You don’t want to design a nursery. You won’t discuss names. You won’t buy maternity clothes. You won’t even tell your best friend this is happening.”

“I am going to tell Caprice,” I say, reluctance thick in my voice.

He shakes his head, a line cutting deep between his brows. “Sure. Eventually, you’ll have to. I’m just trying to figure out why you haven’t yet. What it means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Anton. As I’ve said before, it’s still early and I have a lot of other stuff that matters to me?—”

“Just like your mom.”

I grip the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles turn white. “Excuse me?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve always said your mom did? Never had time to come to performances or sporting events because she was too busy doing her own things?”

I blow out a hot breath. “Pregnancy isn’t exactly a dance recital.”

“I just need to know right now, Lydia.” His voice dips low and sad. “Do you—do you not want the baby?”

And suddenly we’re back in our bathroom, arguing about birth control last July, and I’m trying to tell him I’m not sure about having kids. And he’s giving me that stony look and saying. That might’ve been good to know.

For a second, tears prick my eyes and the car drifts over the white line on the shoulder, but I quickly correct the wheel. I didn’t even realize I’d been dreading this question—having to answer it for myself.

Because when I think about it, I don’t want any of the things that are happening to my body. I don’t want the changes to our home. Or Anton’s affection. I don’t want our lives upended with diapers and crying. I don’t want our schedules turned upside down.

Do you not want the baby?

Or do I not want to be a mother?

Is that a different question, or does it mean the same thing?

Suddenly, I notice Anton’s posture changing next to me. He straightens, facing forward, and the air between us shifts like darkness descending on the car. We come to a red light, and though my 4Runner’s tires slide a bit on the icy pavement, we do come to a stop. And as the late-night traffic crosses in front of us, I turn to look at my husband’s face, but I’m not prepared for what I see. His expression, blank and removed. Like he’s interpreted my silence as my answer.

I open my mouth. “Anton?—”

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