I pad down the stairs in my socks and find Anton in the kitchen, moving like it’s mission day, prepping sandwiches with the kind of precision that belongs in a five-star deli.
He glances over his shoulder. “Turkey and provolone, hot honey mustard. And arugula.” He cocks an eyebrow. “We have to eat our veggies now.”
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my chest. “Aw. Do I have to?” I laugh. “I’m in the mood for just the cheese. Preferably melted.”
“Sorry, Mama, fondue isn’t the best packed lunch.” He brushes crumbs off his hands. “I’ll make you pizza later if you’re good.”
A wave of emotion washes over me, and I touch my stomach. This baby is so lucky.I’mso lucky.
He works feverishly, washing berries in a colander, then dumping them into a bowl. He adds a dollop of organic yogurt and sprinkles on a granola that looks more like dessert than breakfast. He pushes it across the breakfast bar to an empty seat. “No time for a greasy spoon today.”
As if that’s what I’d call Anton’s breakfasts.
“Thank you…” I sit and watch him finish rushing around the kitchen, filling Thermoses with tea, coffee. Packing a cooler.
And I wonder…has anyone ever looked after him? Did his ex-wife do nice things and make him feel important and worship his body with fruit and granola?
I’m filled with thoughts of what I could do for him sometime. Just to be nice. Just to show him he’s valued and appreciated.
Anton finishes packing the cooler and closes it. “Love the new shirt.”
I let my spoon clink in the bowl. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. I like you showing.”
The words hit like sunlight.
But it doesn’t erase the feeling I had earlier about being taken seriously at the interview today.
“It’s going to be weird questioning civilians with a bump. It makes me feel really…different.”
He eyes me. “You’re worried they won’t respect you?”
“Yeah. Maybe they’ll think I’m…fragile?”
Have I ever thought a pregnant woman looked fragile? Not once.
But a pregnant cop somehow feels…different, and I hate that it does.
Anton reassures me. “I’m not sure how anyone could think a woman willing to give up her body to grow another and, let’s be honest, to brave birth, would be seen as anything less than a goddamn heroine of her own comic book.”
A genuine laugh leaves my lips. “Yeah, I’m shocked Stan Lee missed that opportunity.”
The image flashes bright and ridiculous in my mind—the dramatic front cover, a masked woman with an unmistakable bump—and I start giggling at my own joke. “Superbump.”
Anton’s laugh is instant and sharp. “Superbump…” he repeats, already losing it. “And her sidekick—Bump-ble Bee…”
That does me in. My body rolls with laughter as I gasp, “You did not just say Bump-ble Bee…” The giggles pour out of me, uncontrollable now, until a tear escapes, and I swipe it away with my finger. “Stop…” I manage, trying to breathe. “That’s too much.”
Anton is still beaming. “Hey. People have bought into it. Sorry to say you wouldn’t be the first pregnant superhero.”
I take a drink of apple ginger juice. “Really?”
“Spider Woman was pregnant once,” he says, washing up a bowl he used.
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious. My brother was obsessed with comics and loved her. Thought she was the ultimate badass.”
