Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I grip my right side. “Ugh. Can we slow down?”
“Lydia, if we go any slower, that’s called standing, not running.”
“Sorry.” I wipe sweat off my brow with my forearm. “Maybe it’s the heat.”
Caprice checks her watch as we ease to a walk. Again. “Yeah, seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. Pretty sure that’s considered torture in some countries.”
I grimace. “I just have a stitch... I’ll be good in a few minutes.”
She tosses her sleek ponytail, giving me a pointed look. “Is that what you said to get out of your high school PE class?”
“Is it working?”
She ignores me, upping our pace to a power walk, forcing me to wheeze alongside her. “So, you never told me what you decided about the kid thing.”
“Oh... yeah.” I look away, wondering if we can navigate a whole conversation just trading topic changes. “Um, it might happen.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
I swallow, not really prepared to defend my current strategy of if-I-don’t-think-about-it-too-hard-it-won’t-really-happen. “Hey, I think I’m good! Let’s try sprinting the rest of the way!”
Caprice falls in without protest, obviously relieved for the chance to lengthen her stride. Which lasts about fifty more feet before I cry out, crumpling into the grass on the side of the path.
“ Ow, sorry. Stitch moved to my other side.”
She sighs, glancing ahead of us. We’re almost back to the parking lot where we started, thank God. “Look, Lyd, I appreciate you doing this for me. It’s kept me from going crazy the past few weeks. But... maybe I’m good to resume running by myself.”
I can’t deny, part of me—my left side, seizing up with cramps currently—is ready to collapse with relief. If I had any aspirations left about my potential as an athlete, they’ve died a miserable death the last three Sundays, right here on this jogging path.
But the deeper, more rational part of me hesitates at her suggestion.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? What about the threats and creepy messages?”
“They’ve kind of... simmered down.” Caprice shrugs. “Maybe those losers finally got bored. Or got a freaking life? I’ve had a few more shitty emails, but mostly the same kind of stuff I was getting before I wrote about Unmatched.”
I peer at her. “That doesn’t sound super encouraging.”
“I told you, par for the course for women journalists.” She rolls her eyes.
“What about the peephole camera? Has that shown anything weird?”
“Other than discovering my across-the-hall neighbor has a serious DoorDash problem? No. But it has made me feel a little safer at home.”
I limp into the parking lot, slumping against the side of my 4Runner while Caprice works through a series of stretches. “Well, I mean, I guess if you feel comfortable. I don’t want to hold you back...”
She smirks, despite a shadow briefly crossing her face. “How about I try it, but I’ll let you know if things feel scary again?”
“Fine. Deal.” I open my liftgate and grab the water I’ve been dying for the last half mile, pressing a hand over my cramping stomach. “Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that third donut before we left.”
“ Three? ” Caprice says, biting back further commentary when a knot in my gut has me clenching my teeth. “Hey, you okay? Want me to drive you home?”
“No. I’ll be fine,” I say, straightening as the cramp subsides. My friend gazes down the path we just completed around the perimeter of Wash Park. “You want to go around again, don’t you?”
She bites her lip, suppressing a smile. “Maybe. At something above sloth pace.”
“As long as you feel safe enough to do it without me,” I say, closing the back of my car. “I’m going home to take a long bath.”
“Think I’ll go for it.” She shifts into an impatient boxer shuffle beside me. “Thanks for coming with me the past few weeks, though. It’s meant a lot.”
“I’ll do it again if you change your mind... just give me a week to forget my agony.” I survey the other people in the park as I open my car door. The paths are comfortably crowded, mostly with other fitness enthusiasts. It’s not like she’s by herself at night. I lean in, forcing her into an awkward, kinetic hug. “I’ll still be tracking your location. You better text me when you get home.”
“Will do,” she says with a grateful, genuinely cheerful smile. “I hope you feel better—maybe lay off the donuts for a week.”
Anton’s out somewhere when I drag myself through the front door, which is just as well. In the ten minutes it took me to drive home, my stomach went from somewhat unhappy, to mildly punishing, and is now shifting into time-to-pay mode. I make a beeline past Heartthrob and shut myself in the bathroom, turning on the hot water in the tub as I peel out of my sweaty clothes. I have yet to learn my lesson about breakfast pastries it seems, but a warm bath sometimes settles things down when I overindulge. And, thank goodness, it helps this time, too.
But after I’ve had my soak and finally climb out of the tub to pee, the whole world shifts when I see a bright slash of red on the toilet paper.
I didn’t eat too many donuts. I was just getting my period.
At first, I’m so unprepared for the level of relief that washes over me, it’s a good thing I’m sitting down. I mean, yay, my stomach is okay. But I don’t think I even realized how not ready to be pregnant I was until this moment. I feel like I’m releasing a long-held breath.
Except as soon as I take in a new one, I realize what horrible news this is.
I failed. I agreed to do this, to ensure our future together. He wants a family so badly— needs this in order to heal after losing his mom. And now I have to tell him we’re not having one.
I sit with that for a second, trying to figure out how I’m even going to approach this. What if he pulls away again, the way he did after we lost his mom? What if, somehow, he thinks I kept it from happening? A hot wave of guilt passes through me as I remember standing over the trashcan, ready to reach in and remove the pills. I didn’t —though I definitely considered it.
But lots of women have trouble conceiving. This is only the first month—I’ve heard of it taking years. Some couples can’t even have kids without medical intervention. And each and every one of them likely started here, where I am. Bleeding in a bathroom.
There is a pregnancy test under the sink next to my menstrual supplies. One Anton bought proactively in a surge of excitement. Another twinge of guilt shoots through me as I reach past it and unwrap a tampon. We didn’t even get to use it. But it will still be there next month—or the month after.
I straighten up, helping myself to a couple of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet now that I know the source of my cramps. Just as I put the bottle away, there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Lydia? I’m home. Everything okay in there?”
In a weird flash of memory, I return to a similar moment, just months ago. When I was locked in another bathroom, processing information I had and he didn’t. When I realized he was going to cheat—I was going to lose him—if I didn’t make a bold move.
I shake the thought away. That already feels like another life. And neither of us has anything to hide this time. My entire waistline might be aching and swollen, but we’ll chase away this disappointment together. The way we have been the last two weeks.
I pull on my robe and open the door. “Sorry. I’m okay, I was just taking a bath. ”
“A bath?” His eyes traverse me with concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Then I pause and soften my voice. “I got my period.”
This has never been noteworthy information between us. For me, it’s meant several days of discomfort once a month. For Anton, it’s only ever indicated a week of no sex. But I see the exact moment he registers what I’m telling him, and despite all my logic about the odds of conception, I still wish we’d beaten them.
“Oh,” is all he says.
I bite my lip, watching his demeanor shift. His face flattens as if something inside him is retreating and I swallow a stab of panic.
“You know, hardly anyone gets pregnant on the first try. I wasn’t even off the pill a full month.” I look down to where I’ve folded my hands over my aching abdomen, then hastily add, “Anton, I—I’m sorry.”
His gaze follows mine, and for a moment it almost looks like his eyes are shining. But he blinks, and when he looks up, his face is all concern. He takes my hand in his. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I just...” My voice comes out raw. “It’s disappointing.”
I don’t say anything as he pulls me into his arms, wrapping me in the most comforting hug I think I’ve ever received. He rubs my back gently, laying a kiss in my hair.
“It’s hard for both of us,” he says.
I want to tell him it doesn’t have to be. There’s no need to be upset when we can pick up right where we left off; we can try again. But before I can say any of this, the cramping around my midsection intensifies, and I bite my lip hard, waiting for it to pass.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Anton says. “Let me help.”
He goes in search of our heating pad, and though it’s barely lunchtime, I change out of my robe into a cami and loose PJ shorts because real clothes sound awful. When I find him in the living room, he has the heating pad plugged in next to the sofa alongside my favorite blanket, with Netflix pulled up on the TV.
“We had some Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer,” he says, handing me the carton and a spoon .
I settle on the couch and he hovers around, tucking me in until I feel totally wrapped up and cared for. Which I love, but... feels a little weird. Anton has always been sympathetic in the past when I’ve complained about cramping, feeling tired, or an aching back during my cycle. But never this attentive.
“Well, what should we watch?” I ask, patting the empty space beside me.
He hesitates, not sitting. “I uh... actually, I might go to the gym.”
“Oh,” I say. My vision of us wrapped up, snuggling together as we see this unfortunate thing through dissolves, because of course. The gym is where he copes. “Yeah.” I nod. “Sure.”
He disappears to change his clothes, and I start a rom-com, trying hard to focus on fictional people falling in love. But as he passes quietly to the front door, I hit pause. “Anton, wait.”
He leans in, cupping my cheek. “What can I do?”
For a moment, I can’t tell if he’s asking about period pain, or me not being pregnant. I lean into the warmth of his hand, my stomach bunching with dread. As if, somehow, he might leave and not come back.
“I just, um...” I know I shouldn’t apologize, but how else can I assure both of us I didn’t wish this chance away? That I’m still determined to make it happen?
“You just need to rest up and feel better,” he says, letting go of me to head for the door.
Without his sturdy hand, I fall back into my cocoon on the couch. And even though I know he’s right, I still hate watching him go.
“Mr. Richie?” I say quickly. “You know, this will be a great excuse to have a lot more hot sex.”
He pauses at the door, and I thrill a little. That I managed to say something remotely right. Even though... I’m having a hard time feeling it. Despite the fun we’ve had the last couple of weeks, right now, if I’m honest, a few days off sex sounds nice.
My cheeks go hot and I look at my lap, hoping he didn’t see it in my face. We’ve worked too hard to get where we are. Where we were.
But now I’m not even sure he heard me, because when he looks back, his face is achingly blank. “I’ll be back in a little while. I... I just need to go clear my head.”
He’s out the door almost before he gets the words out.
Heartthrob raises his head to look at me from his bed, and when my eyes start to sting, he gets up and shoves his nose into my lap. I pat the empty space on the couch again, and he doesn’t hesitate. He jumps up and curls close. I open my ice cream and hit play on the remote, snuggling my dog and watching made-up people get their happily ever afters.