His Expecting Secret

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not bad, exactly. Just wrong. Like someone had swapped my deodorant for something floral and forgotten to tell me.

I stood in the bathroom of our apartment, towel around my waist, staring at the mirror. Same face. Same brown eyes, same jaw that never quite squared the way I wanted it to. But something was off. The air felt different against my skin. Thicker. Like the humidity had jumped ten percent overnight and only I could feel it.

"Kyle? You alive in there?"

Rachel's voice through the door. Impatient. She had a seminar at nine and I was hogging the bathroom.

"Yeah. Yeah, coming out."

I opened the door and she pushed past me, toothbrush already loaded. She caught my expression in the mirror and paused.

"You look weird."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean. Did you sleep?"

I hadn't. Not really. I'd lain awake most of the night with this strange heat pooling under my skin, not feverish exactly, but close. Like my body was running a program I didn't remember installing.

"I'm fine," I said.

She shrugged and went back to brushing. That was Rachel. She took people at their word. It was one of the things I loved about her, that she didn't dig for problems that weren't there. Or maybe she just didn't dig for problems she didn't want to find.

I went to the kitchen and poured coffee. The mug felt strange in my hand. Too big? No. My hand felt smaller. I looked at it. Same hand. Same scar across the knuckle from that time I punched a wall in high school. Same chewed nails.

I drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way my chest felt tight against my t-shirt. Not painful. Just present. Like my skin had become more aware of itself.

The bus was crowded. I stood near the back, hand looped through the strap, and tried to read the news on my phone. But the words kept sliding around. Not literally. I wasn't having a stroke. Just this weird sense that I was reading them from slightly farther away than usual.

A woman next to me shifted and her shoulder brushed my arm. I felt it everywhere. A little jolt that ran from my elbow to my spine. I looked at her, startled, and she gave me an apologetic smile.

"Sorry."

"No problem."

My voice sounded higher. Not much. A quarter tone, maybe. But I heard it. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"No problem."

Better.

I got off at my stop and walked the three blocks to the office. It was a small design firm, eight of us in a converted warehouse with exposed brick and too many plants. I liked it. The work was steady and nobody bothered me.

"Morning, Kyle."

Maya from accounting. She was holding a muffin and looking at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Morning."

"You doing something different with your hair?"

I touched my head. "No."

"Huh." She tilted her head. "You look different. Good different. Did you get a haircut?"

"No."

She shrugged and walked off. I stood there for a second, then went to my desk.

The morning passed in a blur of email and layout revisions. I couldn't focus. My body kept distracting me. The way my jeans sat on my hips. The way my shirt collar rubbed against my neck. Everything felt slightly off, like I was wearing someone else's clothes. But they were my clothes. I'd bought them. I remembered buying them.

At lunch I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I needed to check. I didn't know what I was checking for, but I needed to see.

I pulled up my shirt.

Same stomach. Same chest. But the hair on my chest looked thinner. Less of it. And my nipples. They looked different. Slightly larger. Darker. I touched one and felt a shock of sensation that made me gasp.

I dropped my shirt and stood there, breathing hard.

What the fuck.

I didn't go back to work. I told Maya I felt sick and she nodded sympathetically and told me to go home and rest. I walked out into the afternoon sun and stood on the sidewalk, not knowing where to go.

I called Rachel.

"Hey. You okay?"

"I think I'm getting sick."

"You sound weird."

"I know."

"Do you want me to come home?"

"No. I just. I need to figure something out."

"Figure what out?"

"I don't know yet."

She was quiet for a second. "Okay. Call me later."

"I will."

I hung up and started walking. I didn't have a destination. I just needed to move. The city slid past me, all glass and noise, and I felt like I was watching it from inside a body that didn't belong to me.

By the time I got home, the changes were undeniable.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom and looked at myself. Really looked. My shoulders were narrower. My waist was smaller. My hips had widened. Not a lot. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make my jeans fit differently.

I stripped down to my boxers and stared.

My body was softer. Rounder. The lines of it had shifted. I ran my hands over my stomach and felt the new curve of it, the way my skin seemed to yield under my fingers. My chest ached. Not painfully. Just a dull, persistent throb.

I touched my chest again and this time I didn't stop. I cupped my hand over my nipple and felt that same jolt, stronger now, spreading down through my belly. I closed my eyes and let out a breath that sounded like someone else's.

When I opened them, I was still me. But not.

I sat on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. The apartment was quiet. Rachel wouldn't be home for hours. I had time to figure this out. Time to decide what to do.

But I didn't know what there was to figure out. My body was changing. That was the fact. The question was why. And what happened next.

I thought about calling a doctor. I thought about calling my mom. I thought about calling Rachel and telling her everything.

I didn't do any of those things.

Instead I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling the strange new weight of my body settle into the mattress. The fan spun above me, lazy and indifferent. Outside, a siren wailed and faded. The world kept going.

I put my hand on my stomach and felt something shift under my palm. Not movement. Not yet. Just a presence. A knowledge.

I wasn't alone in my body anymore.

And I had no idea what that meant.