Page 90 of Mismatched

“You are my wife, Lydia. You are the only woman I ever want to mother my children. When I imagine our babies, they’re in your arms—with your eyes and your hair,” I say, curling her blonde strands around my fingers. I take a deep breath. “But when I’ve envisioned a future where I’m not a father, it’s always with you, too. If the last few months—the last ten years have made me sure of anything, it’s that. Whatever happens to us, whatever choices we make, I will be beside you.”

She stares at me, searching deep, like there’s something she’s trying to find. Some reason to question or doubt. Something that maybe used to be there. But after a few moments, she bites her lip and her expressions clears. There are still tears in her eyes, but her cheeks are pink, and she looks at me with the most beautiful smile.

“I love you, Mr. Richie.” She takes my hands and clasps them together with hers over her stomach, lowering her voice. “And no matter what happens, I hope this little peach knows that’s what they’re made of.”

We are bustled around by nurses all Saturday morning. They’re in and out with the occasional doctor, including Lydia’s OB, and there’s more bloodwork and ultrasounds. Lydia is still bleeding that evening, but it’s so much less, and the baby continues to look so strong, that Sunday morning, we’re finally told she can go home.

“I’d like you to stay on bed rest for a week as a precaution,” Dr. Sharma says before we’re discharged. “That doesn’t literally mean stay in bed, but really try to limit your activity. No heavy lifting, don’t even go for walks. And no sex. Things inside you may still be healing, and we want to give them the best chance we can. Come see me for a follow-up in a week and we’ll go from there.” She squeezes Lydia’s hand and looks back and forth at the two of us. “I’m so glad you’re both okay.”

While we wait on discharge paperwork, Lydia asks me to log into our BabyBump account. I’m a little hesitant. It seems overconfident, seeking out things to get excited about just yet, but I don’t want to crush her enthusiasm, so I pull it up on my phone.

“Let’s see, it says the baby is the size of a navel orange at fourteen weeks,” I say from the chair next to her bed. She’s changed into fresh clothes I grabbed her from home, including another of my old CU sweatshirts.

“Peach was cuter,” she says with a shrug. “What else is new this week?”

I scan the page, raising a brow. “Apparently our little fruit might already be growing hair. And can make facial expressions.”

Something about this makes Lydia laugh. “I wonder if they’ll make your broody, hangry face.”

“What? I don’t make a?—”

I stop when I look up and realize her laughter has died, and she’s clutching her arms around herself, looking lost. I get up and pull her into my arms.

“I—I hope we get to find out,” she whispers.

I kiss the top of her hair. “Me, too.”

There’s a knock on the door, and our nurse bustles in. “Okay! You guys are all discharged.” She enters trailing an over-the-top enormous bundle of brightly colored balloons. There must be more than thirty of them, taking up so much room Lydia and I can hardly see each other. “Also, these were just delivered. Good thing you didn’t miss them!”

“Um, thanks,” Lydia says, ducking to try to look at them. “Do you know who they’re from?”

I back up to the windows, where I’m finally far enough away to see that all the balloons say Congratulations!

“Oh yeah, there’s a card. It says: Our thoughts are with you. Love, Mom.”

The nurse makes a confused chuckle as Lydia peers at me through the helium forest. Lydia lost her phone in the wreck, but I told Celia what happened when she called me yesterday to check in. Word must have finally reached Marion.

Grudgingly, I have to admit my mother-in-law’s conflicting sentiments—congrats and sympathy—are spot-on.

But when I see the new layer of stress on Lydia’s face looking at the balloons, I clear my throat and turn to the nurse. “Um... is there a chance these would brighten the day of anyone else in the hospital?”

She glances at me, and for a second I expect an argument about the gift. But then she nods in a way that tells me she’s seen plenty of complex family dynamics. “Sure. I’ll send them down to the mom and baby unit. I’m sure they could find a way to use them.”

Lydia looks at me, eyes grateful, and I squeeze her hand. “Thank you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Bed rest turns out to be the literal hardest thing before I’m even forty-eight hours into it. Anton has me set up on the couch in our living room within arm’s reach of the TV remote, five books from my nightstand, several of my favorite snacks, and my laptop. But I feel like I’m coming out of my skin by noon on Tuesday. My phone did not survive the accident, and while Anton’s promised me a replacement, I’m pretty sure he’s dragging his feet in an attempt to help me “rest.”

I reach for my phone to text Tomás, then remember again and yank open my laptop. I didn’t even realize how much I move around and communicate during the day until I couldn’t do either.

I only had some light spotting this morning, which comes as a huge relief, even though I’m starting to seriously question whether I’m going to make it through the week on this couch. I’m dying to at least take Heartthrob for a walk, though he seems content to just curl up nearby and keep an eye on me.

A knock on the front door lifts me out of my funk. I’ll take any reason to get off my butt, even if it’s just an Amazon delivery. But after I look out the window, I fling the door open with more enthusiasm than I’ve had all day.

“Henry!”

He looks me over carefully, standing on my porch holding a pink box of Voodoo Doughnuts. “Thank God,” he says in his faint British lilt. “I couldn’t discern from Anton’s message if we were talking bumps and bruises, or you were in a coma in the ICU.”

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