Not In The Christmas Plan

Chapter 1

Chapter one

On all that is holy, if I had known Grant was going to gobble up all the pie, I would have bought a store made one just for him.

I watch him through narrowed eyes, shaking my head.

Look at him, up there being all greedy. He thinks he's slick, but I saw the way he looked at me before getting up for his third piece, and I know he’s doing it on purpose. Going for as much as he can just to get a rise out me. Never mind the other four adults here who might want some before he—

“Ouch!” I hiss as a sharp pain radiates from the back of my arm and glare at my sister. “Did you just pinch me?”

“Yes,” Ivy whispers hotly. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t stop!”

“Stop what? All I'm doing is sitting here.”

I rub my arm to soothe the sting away while pulling up a mental image of the cabinet she keeps her prenatal vitamins in. I know she needs them for the extra calcium and iron and everything, but if she uses those talons on me again, I’m tossing her vitamins right in the trash.

Ivy narrows her eyes in that ‘you know exactly what I’m talking about’ glare, and after a few seconds I drop my scowl for a pout.

“But that’s his third slice!” I say, leaning into her so no one else hears my righteous complaint.

“So? You should take it as a compliment that someone actually likes your baking.”

“First of all—rude. And second—compliment? He’s only doing it to get under my skin. Didn’t you see his smirk before he got up? He’s being petty.”

Ivy rolls her eyes. “Grant is the least petty person I know. Besides, you brought two pies, Eve. Stop being stingy and let the man eat.”

“But—”

“No buts. You promised me.”

Ivy’s solemn reminder has me biting the inside of my cheeks.

I made a promise to be nice to the man, yes, but that was before I knew he was a pie thief.

It took me three baking sessions, peeling six pounds of potatoes, overcooking two pies, under cooking one, and fighting back tears while trying to correctly roll out crust, all to get my sweet potato pies to look and taste just like Dad’s.

I thought everyone understood that in the Matthews household, we don’t touch dessert until dinner's done and the Christmas season officially begins with a movie.

Everyone, apparently, except for Grant, who dug right in as soon as the last bite of mac and cheese had been scraped off his plate.

“Furthermore,” I continue, because forget my promise. I’m mad all over again thinking of my disregarded hard work. “He didn’t even use the whipped cream I bought. Don't you remember how I told you somebody's auntie tried to straight up take it out of my basket?”

“Eve.” Ivy’s exasperated tone is unmistakable, along with her those pleading eyes. “Please.”

Ugh. And I know what that ‘Please’ means. Please, make this Thanksgiving easy on her. It’s her first hosting her in-laws, including her brother-in-law, Grant. Her first eating for three. And our first without Dad’s booming laughter echoing in our childhood home.

My chest squeezes, but before thoughts of how much I miss Dad can take root and intrude on what should be a day of thankfulness, I lower my gaze and focus on Ivy’s belly.

AKA, the other reason I capitulated to Grant coming over and my being nice to him.

Ivy’s pregnant. Like, really pregnant. Her stomach is so swollen that her chair is pushed back at least a foot more than mine, and she looks ready to pop.

She actually looked ready to pop about three months ago, not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

“I’m serious,” Ivy presses at my silence. “Do not make me have to go off on you and embarrass both of us in front of Braxton’s parents.”

And people say I’m the mean twin.

“Fine,” I huff out. “I’ll be nice. Just like I promised.”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Wardell, Ivy’s father-in-law asks us from his seat at the end of the table.

Ivy attempts to reposition herself to face him, but all she does is wobble back and forth for a few seconds. In the end she gives up and simply turns her head in his direction.

“Oh, you know, just twin things,” she answers breezily before leaning back in her seat, though she looks far from relaxed. Despite her glowing skin, her eyes droop with exhaustion and her mouth pulls at the corners.

“Anyone else want a piece while I’m up?” Grant asks from his spot at the counter, standing over the pie, with a knife in his eager hand.

“Not until we start the movie,” Ivy and I say at the same time.

“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 loved our 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 be getting 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.”