Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Here’s one of your favorites. Ask her ,” Henry breathes down my neck.
I shoot him a glare, turning back around to greet one of our regular Pooch Park clients. “Hi, Gail! Tomás will get Freckles for you,” I say, nodding gratefully to my manager.
“Lydia, it feels like ages since I saw you!” Gail greets me with a big hug. “Wow, you look radiant, dear.”
I laugh, shaking my head. Gail and her springer spaniel have been daycare clients since right after I opened five years ago, and she has always been one of my biggest supporters. “Thanks, I think it’s just the heat today,” I say, fanning my face.
“I wish it would do that to me,” she says, cackling.
Tomás returns with Freckles, who wiggles and dances at the sight of his mom, but before I can even give the dog a treat, Henry clears his throat.
I sigh, annoyed by his persistence. “Oh, listen Gail. If you don’t mind, could I ask a question? We’re just doing a little informal market research.”
“Sure, what’s it about?” she asks, looking Henry and his business suit up and down.
“Since you use both our daycare and grooming,” Henry says, jumping in. “We were curious if you would enjoy having the two services combined?”
Gail only thinks for a moment. “Oh, without a doubt.”
“Really?” I say through my teeth.
“Actually, would I even be able to add extra baths between haircuts? I would definitely do that, especially if Freckles was already here.” She beams at me. “Lydia, you’re brilliant. It’s no wonder you’re such a success.”
Henry smirks at me as she leaves. “So, that’s six yeses, and let’s see... not a single no from any client we’ve asked.”
“It’s an incredibly small sample,” I mutter, not willing to grant him the satisfaction of knowing Marisol said the same thing. But I knew this would only be a matter of time once I saw his projections. I just need encouragement to get used to the idea.
“So, can I schedule the contractor to start the build-out?” he asks.
“Fine. But we’ll only be able to move Alicia over here.” I cross my arms. “It’s too small a space for more than one groomer. And we’ll need to see how this goes before we talk about renovating Pooch II.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says with a curt bow like I’m the queen.
I stomp outside to lick my wounds, and to make sure the dogs are being rotated since it’s still pretty hot for late September. Even though we have misters and plenty of water for them to play in, I keep a close eye on our four-legged clients in the heat. When I stop to dump out and refill a wading pool, Heartthrob runs over to attack the hose, effectively soaking me in the process. But it’s so hot I can’t really complain. Once I’ve checked in with the afternoon employees, I slip away into my office.
Anton and I have another date tonight. Which is to say, we’re actually dressing up and leaving the house rather than staying home and stripping our clothes off. It’s been weeks since we began his new experiment—since that night in the yard. And even I have to admit it’s gone better than expected. We haven’t had sex every day, but three or four times a week, at least. And while we do seem to be getting better at the physical act, it also feels like we’re growing closer. More in tune with each other’s moods and emotions. Even our therapist got on board, admitting it was an interesting strategy .
I close my office door, pulling my still-damp top over my head and reaching for the box of new Pooch Park T-shirts Henry and I ordered for the staff. But as I glance at the mirror on the back of the door, I notice I’m kind of spilling out of my bra. That hasn’t happened since I started shopping at Allure Lingerie and they fit me with a correct bra size. I take a moment to tuck myself back in, but my breasts are so sensitive they almost hurt, and I have to do it delicately. Now that I think about it, my waistline feels snug too.
Great. I’ll probably get my period and it’ll ruin the whole night Anton and I have planned. I open up the cycle tracking app on my phone to see if there’s any chance we might squeeze in one more date before my flow begins, but when I study the screen to check the predicted start of my period, my mouth drops open.
I bring the phone closer to my face, scrolling up to the date of my last cycle, then back down to the predicted start for this month. Which was a week ago.
My skin is clammy. The app is not always super accurate, but I can’t remember the estimate being off by more than a few days. I swipe back, hovering for a minute over the home screen, wondering if I should call Anton. Then I close my eyes and set it down, forcing several deep breaths in and out of my chest.
There is no need to freak out. This isn’t an emergency. I didn’t get pregnant last month, but everything was so stressful, I probably entered a date wrong and threw off the stupid algorithm. All I need to do is go home and take a test. Then I can laugh at myself for jumping to conclusions and we can still go out and have fun. I grab my purse and keys, mumbling something to Tomás about placing orders from home on my way out the door. The heat hits me like a wall as soon as I get outside, and I’m so focused on getting the air conditioning going in my car, I nearly pull out of my parking space before remembering I left Heartthrob and running back inside.
There has got to be some kind of margin of error with pregnancy tests. Like, how many kits can the manufacturer make that will really be accurate? I’ve taken two, but it seems like it might be worth going out to buy a third or fourth, to be on the safe side. Just to see if maybe that second line doesn’t appear. There’s got to be some chance of that.
I pick up the box again, re-reading the instructions, though there aren’t many steps and I pretty much have them memorized. Then I Google pregnancy test false positives, glancing at the two plastic sticks on my bathroom sink.
And like an asshole, Google tells me home tests are ninety-nine percent accurate.
I lower myself to the toilet, placing my head between my legs.
I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a?—
This can’t be.
Except what did I think was going to happen after stopping birth control? Having near-constant sex for several weeks? Just a bunch of orgasms, apparently.
I feel altogether stupid, terrified, and if I am being honest, a little remorseful. Which, as soon as I think it, instantly makes me feel guilty. This is what Anton and I want—it’s the next step for us as a couple, and as a family. I ought to be overjoyed. But when I raise myself to a sitting position again, staring down at my tender breasts and relatively flat stomach, I feel like I’m going to cry.
It isn’t really the physical piece I’m dreading—well, okay, I am scared of what pregnancy will do to me. Of getting stretched out everywhere and never regaining the shape I have now. Of throwing up every morning. Of having to go through labor. But the prospect of being someone’s... mother . Putting a baby first, before everything. Before the Pooches. Before Anton. Before me. I think of Celia, unable to even eat dinner without first appeasing Baby Gabriel. And for just an instant I get a flicker of resentment.
Followed by utter horror.
Because that is just like our mother.
I drop my face into my hands. I can’t imagine bringing another human into this world and making them feel like a burden. Except apparently I already am.
The front door slams, and I hear Anton goofing around with Heartthrob, tossing his toy and wrestling. My stomach drops and I look at my phone. I didn’t realize what time it was. After a minute or two, I hear him coming down the hall calling my name, and suddenly I’m not ready for this. I glance at the tests on the counter, wondering for a split second if I could hide them. Delay the moment a little longer. Before we stop being a couple and have to become... parents.
Anton appears in the open door with a grin. “This is a nice surprise—how come you’re home so early?”
He takes in the scene—me, sitting on the toilet, looking just as horrible as I feel. And his face falls immediately.
“Lydia? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
I shake my head, though now I do feel like I might throw up. Had I felt nauseous before I took the tests? I can’t remember. Or is that something that just kicks in once you confirm you’re knocked up?
He steps into the bathroom, reaching for me, but then I see his gaze flicker over the items scattered across the counter. The box of pregnancy tests he purchased last month. The carefully unfolded instructions, and the two plastic strips, lying side-by-side, with their matching not-even-a-little-faint pink lines.
He freezes, turning to look at me. Clearly registering exactly what I’m scared for him to know. “Is that...” He swallows. “Are you...?”
The pure, lilting joy in his voice amplifies the knot of guilt in my stomach, unleashing my floodwall of tears. I cover my face with my hands, as if that might block any of this from being real. And then he’s folding me into him, arms encircling me. Holding me, whispering excited reassurances in my ear while I utterly lose my shit.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this, Anton!” I sob. “I don’t want to get sick. I don’t want my body to change. And we’re finally doing so well. What if this ruins everything?”
“Shh,” he says, stroking my hair. “It’s going to be amazing, Lydia. You’re going to be amazing. You don’t need to worry about any of those things. I’m going to help you through it—we’ll do this together.”
He continues to rock me in quiet celebration in our cramped bungalow bathroom, while snot and ugly tears pour out of my face. “What, are you going to hold back my hair while I puke?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, then chuckles. “If that’s what you need. And I...” He hesitates, clearly searching for some other way to be useful as a will-never-be-pregnant male. “I’ll clean the bathroom every day so it’s a nice place to be sick.”
This makes me snort, and though it’s devoid of humor, it seems to set him at ease. I guess I should probably be charmed that he wants to take on some responsibility. But despite his reassurances and promises to be a team, I can’t help feeling like I’m facing this by myself. When it comes down to it, he won’t be the one dealing with nausea. His body will stay god-like while mine gets huge and misshapen. He won’t have to think twice about anything. And though I’m sure he’ll be there to cheer me through birth, I’m the only one who can take on that pain.
I raise my gaze to his, trying to think of some way to put these doubts into words. To make him see I’m the literal vessel and there’s nothing he can really do but promise to change every single stupid diaper when this is over. Except when I look at him— he is actually glowing. Like, I’ve never really understood why people say that to expectant mothers, but that’s the only way I can describe my husband’s face right now. And because I hate myself for not sharing that feeling with him, my eyes refill with tears.
“I—I’m not sure I can do this,” I sob.
“You’ll do amazing, Lydia. How could you not?” Anton says, but I think he’s still talking about pregnancy and I’m too scared to even say what I’m really afraid of. Because he clearly thinks I’m capable of being like his mother when everything points to me turning into mine.
“I didn’t think it would happen so fast,” I say, and this at least is the truth. Last month gave me a false sense of security. He’d wanted to get me pregnant, we’d tried , but when it didn’t happen... I know people who have been trying to get pregnant for years. But for the life of me, no one seems to talk about it happening on the second try. “I’m just a little shocked.”
“Me too.” He wipes his hand over his face, and I turn at the quaver in his voice. Is he having doubts too? Is he as freaked out as me? But then he looks at me, beaming. “This might be the best thing to ever happen.”
I narrow my eyes, unable to hide my skepticism. “I’ll have to get back to you about that.”
He laughs, and I gasp when he scoops me into his arms and carries me into our bedroom, cradling me like a treasure. The man works out like it’s his lifeline, but I am not exactly petite, so I’m always amazed at how easily he can toss me around. And though I show no outward sign of my new “condition,” my body already seems bigger. Heavier. More awkward.
“How are you feeling? Seriously?” he asks, laying me gently back against the pillows.
I press my lips together, not interested in ruining the moment for him, but I also want to tell the truth. So I focus on physical symptoms. “Not that different, really. A little tender. Maybe tired.”
He clasps my hand in his. “How about we stay in tonight?”
I nod, my heart flooding with appreciation because he knows me so well. A few hours ago, I had been looking forward to going out, flirting and enticing each other through dinner. I was prepared to come home, receive all of his attention, and in turn, focus all of mine on him. And while it’s been wonderful, learning new ways to please each other, feeling so connected these last few weeks. It has also been a lot of work. And I’ve learned enough about myself to know I won’t get there at all tonight.
Anton slips off my shoes and tucks the covers up around me, somehow knowing just what I need. I close my eyes, thinking he’s going to lie down with me, but instead, he rises from the bed. “How does stir fry sound—peanut chicken?”
I shake my head, surprising myself when I wrinkle my nose. That’s one of my favorite dishes, but for some reason it doesn’t sound at all appealing. “Maybe just a salad?”
“Anything you want,” he says, backing toward the door. But then he hesitates, looking back at me with a strange expression. He comes back over, sinking next to me on the bed, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to touch me and it’s all I can do not to pull away. I mean, it’s not like he can knock me up again . But the last thing I feel right now is sexy.
Instead of reaching for my body, tracing fingers across my skin or searching under my clothes, he leans in and lays a gentle kiss on my stomach, just below my navel.
“I love you,” he says softly. But for the first time in our relationship, I’m not sure it’s directed at me.
I place my hand over the spot where his lips touched my belly, biting down on my lip. A cold sweat breaks over my skin, and I try to decide if I’m jealous or scared. Either way, I hope he can’t tell.
“Stay here and relax,” Anton says. “I’ll bring you dinner.”
My relief unwinds as he moves to leave, but when I see him in the door, phone in hand, I call him back.
“Anton?”
He stops, expression glowy again as he looks back at me.
“Maybe let’s not tell anyone . . . just yet?”
His brows draw together, so I answer his question before he asks.
“I just thought um... I mean, I’m sure the tests are right. But we should probably get confirmation from a doctor. You know?”
He hesitates a second, then tucks his phone away and nods. “That’s a good idea. Okay, we’ll wait.”
I let out a long breath. “Thanks for understanding.”
“Of course,” he says, smile returning. “For now, it’ll be our private celebration. Just... the three of us.”