Page 89 of Mismatched

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Mr. Richie?”

I turn on my heel just outside Lydia’s door. After the ultrasound, the doctors couldn’t give us a straight answer about what might be happening, so they admitted her to the hospital “for observation.” It’s at least quieter on this floor, but they’ve been observing for like five hours and nothing has happened.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Sloane. We met downstairs.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it, though her face blends with the dozens of others I’ve seen since we got here. “How’s she feeling?”

I shrug, sipping bad coffee from a machine down the hall. “She’s sleeping, finally. Things seem about the same.”

She nods. “I just wanted to follow up before my shift ends. I checked in with the nurses and they’ve reported she’s had less bleeding over the last couple of hours. I also consulted with my colleagues about her ultrasound, and while our primary concern is still placental abruption, we agree, if the bleeding stops and she still doesn’t experience any pain in the next forty-eight hours, her risk should be low.”

I run my hand over my face. “Translate that for me? Sorry, it’s been a long night.”

She gives me a gentle smile. “That means that unless something changes, there’s a good chance your wife will be fine and her pregnancy will progress normally.”

I blink at her. “Like, we could just go home and forget this happened?”

“You would need to follow up with her OB to monitor her for a while. But yes, it’s still early enough in her pregnancy that this trauma could be negligible.”

I let out a long exhale, because this is exactly what I needed to hear. But then another question occurs to me. “If for some reason... If something went wrong and she—we lost it. Would Lydia still be okay?”

She presses her lips together. “If that were to happen, it would be like a miscarriage. Since she has no other injuries from the accident, her risk would still be low.” She reaches out to touch my arm. “Lydia and the baby are doing well at this point. There’s no reason to think either of them won’t be just fine.”

“Okay. I just need her to be—” I stop, remembering to breathe in again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She bobs her head, then visibly brightens. “I don’t expect to see you when I come back on Monday, so I just want to say good luck.”

I creep into Lydia’s still-dark room, making my way to the chair I spent the night in by the light of the monitors still beeping away in the corner. She’s curled up on her side, but when I lean over to pull her blankets a little higher, I hear a quiet sniffle.

“Lydia?” I whisper.

She raises her head, reaching for a tissue on the tray table, and my stomach drops. Unless something changes, I think, immediately echoing the doctor’s words in my head.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, opening the blinds to let in some of the gloomy morning light. “Has something started to hurt?”

She winces, turning away from the window, but shakes her head, her body continuing to vibrate with sobs. This goes on for a minute and she still doesn’t speak. I’m not sure what else to do, and she won’t look at me, so I set the coffee aside and nudge her. “Scoot over, make room.”

She complies, somewhat surprised when I squeeze into the bed amid her wires and cords, wrapping my arms around her and tucking her head against my chest.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say in a low rumble.

At first, she presses her face harder against me, like maybe she could just sink in so far she won’t have to speak. But after a while, after my shirt is damp from her tears, she says in a shaky voice, “I—I don’t want to lose the baby.”

My body stills. A thick lump makes its way into my throat, but I just whisper, “Me neither.”

We lie there, holding each other a few more minutes, each of us with a protective hand over her belly, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart monitor.

“Did something... change?” I hate asking, but I can’t stop thinking of our conversation in the car before the crash.

She lets out a long, slow breath. “Anton, I’ve always wanted a family with you. I just realized I was scared. Of things being different, of becoming a mom.” She shakes her head, then takes my hand and squeezes. “And... I was scared you wouldn’t wait for me to be ready.”

If I thought there wasn’t anything left to break inside me after last night, I was wrong. I open my mouth, trying to choke out words. “You thought I wouldn’t?—?”

She presses her face into my damp shirt and nods as it dawns on me—of course. This is what I’ve shown her. That I can’t wait for her. That I’ll look for someone else. I tore both our hearts to pieces doing exactly that on Unmatched.

And now I’ve done it again.

I close my eyes, trying to figure out what to say, how to exist—if the woman I love, who’s already given me more chances than I deserve, thinks this of me. Finally, I pull back, holding her face so I can look into her eyes.

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