Page 97 of Mismatched

I study him more closely, my heart warming when I register the true joy in his face. He wants this—maybe he needs this. Briefly, I imagine Anton at home, cuddling our little infant. Changing their diapers, feeding them, taking them out in a stroller. And of course, that very domestic modern male image somehow lights a fire inside me, sending out waves of arousal into my nipples and between my legs. Because this is what my hormones do to me now. I’ve gone from having to concentrate so hard to even have sex, to it taking all my focus just to avoid thinking about it.

“Well.” I let out a breath and look down, resting my hands on my still-small bump to divert my attention. “I was okay with daycare because it would allow me to keep doing the things I want. But if being home with our baby is what you want, and it makes sense, then I really can’t argue.”

Anton’s eyes glitter, and the way he smiles really does remind me of his mother. He picks up his milkshake glass and holds it out until I pick up mine to clink against it.

“To the best thing for all three of us.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“All right, Mr. and Mrs. Richie...” an older white man says, glancing at the screen as he comes into the room. “I’m Dr. Francis. I hear you had a bit of trauma a month or so ago, but it sounds like things have been going well since?”

Lydia and I look at each other and nod. Dr. Sharma sent us to a high-risk specialist for the baby’s anatomy scan in order to “take a closer look and be sure everything is still good.” Which all sounded fine until we got here. On the surface, it looks like any other doctor’s office, but as soon as we walked in, the mood was clearly different. The waiting room was more somber, the office staff gentler, the informational posters on the walls more concerning. I haven’t said anything to Lydia, but I can’t help wondering if Dr. Sharma’s concerns are bigger than we thought.

Lydia grips my hand a little tighter. Maybe she’s feeling it too.

“Okay, let’s take a look and see how things are going,” the doctor says, sitting on a stool by the ultrasound machine, which seems bigger and fancier than the one at our usual clinic.

Before the doctor came in, the ultrasound tech was already hard at work taking countless measurements of the baby at what seemed like every possible angle. She’s been pleasant, but we’ve been waiting impatiently for real answers. The one comfort has been watching the little form on the extra-large screen across the room, waving its arms and legs to the rhythm of what sounds like a strong, steady heartbeat. I’ve been quietly mesmerized the entire time.

The doctor applies more jelly to Lydia’s rounding belly and mutters back and forth with the tech in a medical jargon I don’t follow. From what I can tell, he is going back and double-checking every measurement she already took. I swallow dryly, adjusting my seat on the stool.

“Well, looks like you’ve got yourselves an active little kicker,” he says to Lydia with a chuckle. “Are you feeling any of this yet?”

She shakes her head, staring at the screen. “No... but watching this, it sure seems like I should.”

“You will. Any time now.” He smiles. “And it looks like everything is growing just the way it ought to be.” He proceeds to go through, showing us various angles of the head and body, rattling off information I can’t hold onto about size, proportions, and statistics. But he never stops to express concern. “Okay, finally, I want to show you this right here.” He zooms in on an area I can’t make heads or tails of, and from Lydia’s expression, neither can she. “This is the placenta. Appropriately sized, good placement...” He pauses, moving the transducer more carefully over her abdomen, back and forth over the same spot while we hold our breath. “Yep,” he says, sitting up confidently. “I see zero indicators of an abruption, or any other concern.”

We both look at the doctor, and slowly, I exhale.

Lydia bites her lip. “So, everything’s okay? We don’t need to worry?”

He gives us a kind smile. “No. You should go home and enjoy your holiday. This is the most uncomplicated pregnancy I’ve seen all day.”

It feels like the entire room relaxes, even the little figure on the screen.

The doctor turns back to the tech and they resume their exchange of jargon and measurements. But then the tech turns to us and smiles. “Do you want to know the gender?”

Lydia and I look at each other, then she gives my hand a firm squeeze.

“Yes,” we say together.

“Good, because we’re being given a show right now.” She chuckles, gesturing at the screen. She repositions the transducer until we’re very clearly looking between two kicking legs. Then she freezes the frame and draws a circle in the middle. “See these three parallel lines? Kind of looks like a little hamburger?”

“Yes,” Lydia whispers, but this time I’m the one gripping her hand.

“Looks like you’re having a little girl—congratulations!”

Suddenly, I am grateful to be sitting down. It feels like gravity just re-entered the room, shoving me down on my stool. A daughter—we’re going to have a little girl just as beautiful as Lydia. My eyes are burning, but I don’t look away until the tech shuts off the machine and starts wiping Lydia with a towel. The doctor turns on the lights, and then he’s in front of me, shaking my hand.

“We’ll send the imaging back over to Dr. Sharma for you,” Dr. Francis says, heading for the door. “I love delivering good news. Even better before the holidays.” He smiles warmly. “Good luck to you both, and Merry Christmas!”

We celebrate with chicken parmigiana from our favorite Italian restaurant in front of the Christmas tree at home. December can be kind of a brown month in Denver, but the weather has decided to keep things magical for us, blanketing the city in a soft, powdery snow for the holiday weekend. Christmas is Monday, the Pooches are closed tomorrow, and we have nothing to do and nowhere to be but with each other.

I put on some low holiday music and clink my sparkling water glass against Lydia’s. “To our healthy little... I believe it’s a mango this week.”

She smiles, reclining on the couch, and I pause a moment, looking at her. Even just in leggings and a maternity top, she strikes me as so beautiful. Her hair falls lush and loose around her shoulders, her skin glows, and her bump is now big enough it’s almost in proportion with her outstanding tits. Almost. I shift, trying to ignore the growing erection in my pants. God, I had no idea how sexy pregnancy would look on my wife.

“To our little girl,” she says, eyeing me with a warm smile.

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