Page 2 of Not In The Christmas Plan
“Copy!” I rush out before Ivy can.
“Darn it,” she says with a tired laugh. “Paste.”
“Another twin thing?” Wardell asks and Ivy and I laugh in unison.
The ‘Copy, Paste’ thing came from Dad. He loved three things: his daughters, his sports teams, and his computers. He owned a computer repair shop downtown and taught computer literacy at the rec center with heart and humor. I am helplessly lost when it comes to all things sports, but get me in front of a crowd and I can spout out some of his computer jokes at the drop of a dime.
What’s a computer’s favorite snack? Microchips!
How does a computer get drunk? By taking screenshots!
Whenever Ivy and I would blurt out the same thing at the same time, he’d go about calling us Copy and Paste for the next hour. Though we’ve always lovedour twinhood, for two kids trying to assert our individuality, Paste felt like an insult we had to avoid at all costs, and so we made a game of it.
“I wonder what little inside games these two will cook up,” Ivy says to me, rubbing her belly and letting me know her thoughts are along the same path as mine.
Her mouth tightens and a small V forms between her eyebrows. Before I can ask if she’s okay, I’m distracted by Grant.
He’s back in his seat directly across from mine, humming a surprisingly decent falsetto of Patti LaBelle’s “If Only You Knew”as he closes his eyes and chews.
The man is so unserious. This is the third time he’s busted out in song after taking the first bite of a new piece.
His thick eyebrows lift as his face twists with soulful emotion. Full lips purse inward and the tip of his tongue peeks through as if devouring every last bit of flavor.
When he opens his eyes and his gaze meets mine, playful and taunting, I’m the first one to look away.
Yup, unserious.
Ivy lets out a pained moan, and all heads swivel to her.
“Are you okay, Baby?” Braxton asks, leaning toward his wife and placing his hands on top of hers.
My adrenaline spikes in the moments it takes Ivy to catch her breath and for her shoulders to relax.
“I don’t know. I started having contractions a few hours ago and was waiting—” She stops and shuts her eyes on another wave of pain. “I was waiting to see if they would go away with some food and water. They seem to begetting stronger, but this is too early to go into labor. Right?”
Go into labor? Now? Oh my God, oh my God!Begins running on a loop through my mind as I stare at Ivy’s stomach. Her stomach where two whole babies are about to try and bust out from. Now. Today.Oh my God!
Ivy turns to me, her brown eyes full of fear and pain, and I know I need to keep it together for her. No panicking.
I went into full research mode when she told me she was carrying twins, wanting to be able to help her every step of the way. Most doctors consider thirty-seven weeks full-term for twins. Ivy just hit thirty-five, so while it’s still early, it’s not uncommon. Twins often come earlier. Ivy and I came at thirty weeks.
When a voice in my head points out how we were the only ones who made it out of the hospital while our mom didn’t, I drown it out and quickly stand up. “This is it, everyone! Operation Womb-Mates is on.”
Chapter two
“I’ve got the go-bag!” I shout. “Braxton, Mr. Wardell, help Ivy to the car.” I nod at Ivy’s mother-in-law. “Mrs. Linda, you’re on brownies for the nurses. Second shelf in the freezer. Go! Go! Go!”
Everyone has a role to ensure Ivy gets to the hospital safely and without delay. We got together on Halloween, and between passing out candy to adorable trick-or-treaters, we ran through every possible scenario—if she went into labor home alone, in the middle of H-E-B, or while Braxton was stuck in traffic on I-35. So while this is unexpected, it’s also a bit serendipitous that we’re all here together.
En masse, chairs scrape against hardwood in a frenzy.
I back away from the table, scanning the controlled chaos, and wince.Almosteveryone has a role. Halloween was one of the few gatherings Grant hadn’t crashed, which means he wasn’t part of the plan. Now he’s rocking on the balls of his feet looking eager to jump in, but I don’thave the time to delegate or worry about him. I need to focus on Ivy.
I press my lips together and turn away.
“Let’s get moving, people!” I call, sprinting for the coat closet.
Ivy’s gym bag is right where it should be, bursting at the seams with fuzzy socks, a soft robe, a few books, her bonnet, and about a dozen other comfort items. When I pick it up and spin around, Braxton and his dad are supporting Ivy on either side as they make their way to the garage.
