Chapter Twenty-Three
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Anton wants to get dinner on the way home from the doctor’s office to celebrate, but I claim nausea. Even though I haven’t had much of that particular pregnancy symptom so far. Guess it would serve me right if it started for real now. I’m just not feeling very celebratory. More like bloated and uncomfortable. I’ve never had six-pack abs like my husband, but my stomach is still as flat as it ever was. But all my pants feel tight. Even my bras are fitting snug. And I’m so tired . What I want more than anything is to take a hot bath, put on my striped pajamas, and read a good book in bed.
But just as he climbs out of his truck in the driveway behind me, my phone rings.
“Oh God. It’s my mom.” I cover my face. I can’t think of anyone in the world I want to talk to less at this moment.
Anton grimaces on my behalf. But, noting my paralysis, gently offers direction. “You don’t have to tell her anything. We agreed—not till twelve weeks. But see what she wants or you know she won’t stop calling.”
He’s right about that. I follow him up the front steps, swiping the screen and putting her on speakerphone as he unlocks the front door .
“Lydia, where have you been?” my mom harps through the receiver. “I called an hour ago and you didn’t answer.”
I open my mouth and almost say I was in a doctor’s appointment, but catch myself before walking into that trap. “Sorry, set my phone down on silent. Must’ve missed it.”
Heartthrob dances around us through the living room. I left him home today because of the appointment, and now he’s insistent we make up for it, so Anton gets on the floor and pretends to steal his toy from him.
“Well, I’m calling because you have got to give me an answer about Thanksgiving. It isn’t polite to leave the hostess hanging like this.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought?—”
“Celia insists we have to construct the whole meal around nap time.” I can hear her eye-roll from four states away. “And when I asked her to make a pie, she said she’d buy one. Really, I’m trying to defer to her and Adam, being new parents and all. But you have to come balance out this nonsense.”
My throat goes dry. New parents indeed.
I swipe to my calendar app with rising panic, counting the weeks until Thanksgiving. I’ll be more than twelve weeks. Actually fourteen. I glance down at my stomach, trying to imagine what I’ll look like by then. Could I still hide it? Or... maybe I won’t need to. Maybe it won’t stick, I think, with a hefty amount of guilt.
Movement catches my eye, and I glance across the room to see Anton gesturing at me, giving me a thumbs up sign. I narrow my eyes, trying to understand what he means.
“You need to hurry up and figure out flights,” my mother goes on. “But I need to know so I can schedule manis for all of us.” She pauses. “Do you think I need to include Sarah?”
I snort. “It might be rude to exclude Celia’s mother-in-law, yes,” I say, filling my water bottle at the fridge.
Anton has given up gesticulating and grabbed a paper and pen.
“I suppose,” my mother says with obvious disdain. “Family holidays are so challenging.”
I nearly choke on the water as I sip. “Yes, they are. ”
And then Anton steps in front of me, holding a paper with these words scrawled in black ink: Let’s do it.
I look up at him, confused, mouthing, do what?
Anton flattens his mouth into a line and scribbles, Thanksgiving in Ohio.
I gape at him. He’s lost his mind.
My mother prattles on, oblivious to our dispute. “You know, while you’re here, we should have a family portrait taken. Our family is growing. Despite you and Anton.”
I jab the mute button on the screen and hold it up between my husband and me. “You want to spend a holiday with her? Has this year not been bad enough?”
”You’d of course need to get your hair done, Lydia,” Mom continues. “We can’t have you looking the way you did at Celia’s wedding.”
Anton grits his teeth and glares at the phone, clearly aware of the terribleness of his suggestion. But when he meets my eyes again, they’re oddly resolute. “You’ll be fourteen weeks by then. It’ll be the perfect way to announce.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I can do that without flying to Ohio.”
“Of course,” Mom goes on, “you and Anton may stay with me again, in your old bedroom. Since you and Celia have such a hard time getting along.”
My husband and I stare at each other like she’s in the room with us. I dig my nails into my palms.
“Think about it,” Anton says in a whisper, despite the phone being muted. “We go out there, make the announcement, they fuss over you, then we come home. If you call her or post the news online, your mom will insist on seeing you and fly out here .”
I press my lips together, groaning when I realize he’s right. It will be bad telling her in person, but better than having her descend on us here. First, she’ll gloat. Because she’ll be getting something she wants. Then she’ll parade me in front of all her friends, announcing it like she’s the one giving birth. But Anton’s right. After that, we could probably leave. There’d be nothing else for her to do but wait for the main event. I close my eyes, wondering if we could just lie to her about the whole thing until after the birth. I can’t imagine going through labor with my mother anywhere nearby.
“Do I have to answer her now?”
Anton makes a face. “Do you want her to keep calling?”
I let out a deep sigh. “I hate when she feels like she’s won.”
He comes closer and takes my hand, laying the sonogram photos on the counter in front of us. “Look, she’s not my favorite,” he agrees. “But she is the only grandparent our baby will have...”
His voice drifts off as he says this, and for a moment I get scared this will trigger him somehow. Make him pull away, right when he’s the one thing I desperately need.
Instead, he reaches for me, pulling me close to him. So comforting and reassuring with that one gesture, it’s clear he meant what he said. We’ll do this together.
“Lydia? Hello? Are you even listening?” My mother snipes through the air.
I fumble to un-mute. “Yes—sorry, Mom. You cut out for a minute. What were you saying?”
“I said it would be nice if you came out Tuesday instead of Wednesday. Then I could bring you and Celia to my book club.”
Anton’s grip around me tightens and he leans toward the phone. “We’d love to come for Thanksgiving, Marion. Thanks for the invite. Lydia and I both have commitments that Tuesday, but we’ll fly out Wednesday. Oh, and we don’t want to impose, so we’ll be staying at a hotel.”
My mother is silent for an entire five seconds. Much as she loves to railroad me, she’s never successfully done it to my husband.
“Lovely to hear your voice, Anton. I’ll let Celia know.”
There’s another pause, and I chime in. “We’ll book the flights now. Can’t wait to see you, Mom.” Anton hangs up before she gets in another word, and I sink back into his arms. “Thank you. She just...” I don’t finish my sentence, but I know I don’t have to. My relationship with her is complicated, but Anton knows that better than anyone.
He nuzzles my hair. “How’re you feeling?”
I wonder briefly if this is a question I’ll just have to get used to. I’ve been asked multiple times today by every person who knows I’m pregnant. “Tired,” I say, honestly.
His hands drift down below my belly button, lingering there protectively. But I’m surprised when I find myself wishing they’d wander elsewhere. Not because I’m aroused at all, actually. Sex has hardly crossed my mind since I took the test last week. What I miss is how much closer we felt with all that physical intimacy.
“Why don’t you take a bath or something?” he says in a low voice. “Are you still not hungry?”
“I could eat a little something,” I say truthfully.
He straightens, sliding around to face me. “Then I’ll fix you a little something.”
I look up, and his eyes are so warm, so full . My gaze flickers to the ultrasound images, and I bite my lip, glancing down at my stomach. “Oof. There’s a picture and everything. I guess this is really happening.”
His face seems to glow, and I home in on that, hoping some of it will transfer to me. Not being excited is starting to feel kind of... wrong. I’m worried he’s going to notice.
“It just doesn’t seem real yet,” I confess. “Maybe it would actually help if I was throwing up.”
He snorts. “Careful what you wish for.”
I laugh, closing the space between us and laying my cheek against his chest, wishing we could stay like this forever. Just the two of us. Finally, however, one of the pregnancy symptoms that’s become hard to ignore forces me to let go. “I really need to pee.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’ll make us a salad. Sound okay?”
I nod. But once I’m in the bathroom with the door closed, I stand there for a minute, studying myself in the mirror. I really don’t look any different. Maybe my breasts are a little fuller. But I could just be retaining water from too many potato chips at lunch. Ugh, it’s not like I want to look pregnant. The longer I can go without people asking me about it, the better. I’m not even looking forward to new clothes. I just want to fit into my old ones.
Staring at my midsection, it’s impossible to even imagine something growing in there. Is this a message from the universe? Don’t get too attached, because it isn’t going to last? Or am I just unable to nurture, somehow? Not cut out for it. Like my own mother.
I close my eyes, desperate for something else to focus on, and my mind easily slips to the Pooches. Henry. I will have to tell him about this—but that can wait until I’ve dealt with my family. I frown, realizing I’ll probably have to go along with all of his ideas now. He barely takes me seriously as a business partner as it is. I doubt that will improve after the birth, with a burp rag draped on my shoulder. This is what happens to women when they start families. Which is one reason I’ve been reluctant to do it.
But then I think of Marisol, efficiently conducting business with her toddler in tow. No one else calls the shots for her. She doesn’t even really have a husband helping with her kid. I pull out my phone, tempted to give her a call, beg her advice.
Only something makes me hesitate.
If I talk to her now, and anything happens in the next few weeks... that would be even more complicated. She’d be concerned, maybe upset. I don’t want to burden her with that. This is why the doctor said people wait to share pregnancies until twelve weeks.
The one person I could, probably should confide in is Caprice. But when I think about calling her up with this news, her voice echoes through my head. For God’s sake, don’t have a baby if that isn’t what you want .
I chew my lip. This is what I want—what Anton and I both want—a future together. And though he said we didn’t have to start a family, it’s clearly what he needs. I’m pretty sure Caprice still thinks I should have left Anton after Unmatched. But if I’ve learned anything about marriage over the last eight years, it’s that it takes a lot of work, from both sides. I just wish I could think of a way to explain that so she won’t be disappointed in me.