Chapter Fifteen
? Holly ?
Friday evening I found myself juggling two large pizzas, a little gift bag, and a file folder that contained my admissions essays as I nudged my way into Maria’s house.
The place was tiny—one bedroom, one bath, a kitchen you could sneeze in and hit three walls at once—but she’d made it cozy in that Maria way.
The thin carpet was spotless, the walls freshly painted in a soft gray, and there were purple daisies in a vase on the island, holding court like royalty over the clutter of mail and prenatal vitamins.
A massive white Dutch oven sat on the stove like she was preparing to feed a battalion instead of just herself.
Maria was sprawled on the couch, her belly rising like a small planet under her T-shirt. She made a valiant effort to roll upright when she saw me, but I shook my head.
“Girl, stop before you hurt yourself. Where are the plates?”
She flopped back down with a groan. “Paper plates. Cabinet next to the stove.”
I flipped the lid of the pizza box open, plates in hand. “One or two pieces?”
“Heartburn says one. Stomach says two.”
I handed her a plate, balancing it on her belly like a makeshift TV tray, and settled into the armchair. For a few blessed minutes, we just ate. The only sound was Maria’s occasional burp and the muffled groan that followed.
She broke first. “I am so ready to not be pregnant. Whoever said pregnancy is beautiful is a liar.”
I smirked around my slice. “It’ll be beautiful when you’re holding Lil Bit in your arms. Right now, yeah…not so much.”
She made a face but didn’t argue. Then she perked up. “Hey—did you bring your packet thing?”
“It’s right there.” I jerked my chin at the folder. “Rewrote that damn essay about thirty times. If they don’t let me in after this, I’m suing for emotional distress.”
“I’m sure it’s fantastic.”
“Or it’s garbage and I’m about to waste the last three months of my life.” I tossed my crust back into the box. “Submitting this is the last step, and then…waiting game.”
Maria reached for the coffee table to drop her plate but missed completely. It flopped onto the floor. She sighed like the world had just ended.
I rolled my eyes, scooped it up, and tossed it. On my way back, I grabbed my essay and the gift bag. Shoving both into her lap, I squeezed onto the couch beside her.
Her brows arched. “What’s this?”
“Just some essentials. You know—for when you’re officially someone’s mom and have zero time to shower.”
She dug into the tissue paper like a kid at Christmas. Out came fuzzy socks, a giant chocolate bar, a self-care kit, and a mug that read “Good Moms Say Bad Words.” She laughed so hard her belly wobbled like a water balloon. “You are ridiculous. And I love it.”
“Good. Now balance that out by tearing me to shreds.” I handed her the essay.
Maria put on an exaggeratedly serious face, pushing up invisible glasses like she was about to deliver a presidential address.
She cleared her throat loudly. “‘Education is the doorway to a brighter future,’” she declaimed, voice booming.
“Really, hermana? A doorway? What are you, a motivational poster from 1997?”
I groaned and face-planted into a pillow. “It sounded better in my head!”
“Mm-hmm.” She flipped the page with a dramatic flourish. “‘With dedication, I can achieve anything I set my mind to.’ Classic. Very Miss America. Do you also dream of world peace?”
I hurled a pizza crust at her. “Keep reading. It gets better. I swear.”
She grinned but continued, her voice softening as she reached the middle. “‘As a survivor of sexual assault, I understand that resilience isn’t just a word—it’s a fight. College is my chance to reclaim the future that was almost stolen from me.’”
Her hand dropped, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Oh, Holly…”
I jabbed a finger at her. “Don’t you dare cry. You’re basically a human water balloon right now. If you cry, I cry, and then it’s Niagara Falls in here.”
She sniffled, laughing wetly. “It’s just pregnancy hormones.”
“Uh-huh.” My cheeks burned, but I forced a smirk. “Finish it before I regret letting you touch it.”
She shook her head fondly, eyes darting back to the page. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know? You sound strong. Like someone who knows who she is.”
“Fake it till you make it.” I picked at a piece of pepperoni. “Now, are you gonna keep roasting me, or—”
A sharp intake of breath cut me off and I looked over at her. Maria’s eyes had widened to the size of saucer plates, and she was staring at her belly.
“Uh… Holly?”
“What?” My stomach dropped at her tone.
“Either I just peed myself…or your essay broke my water.”
The slice slid out of my hand, landing face-down on the carpet. “Oh my God. Oh my God!”
Her deadpan stare did nothing to calm me. “Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” I lied, already tripping over myself to grab the hospital bag.
“Ok. Hospital bag—where is it?”
“Hall closet.” She winced, shifting on the couch. “And for the love of God, hurry.”
I bolted, grabbed the duffel, and came back to find her struggling to stand. “How do you plan on fitting me into your Barbie car?”
“Sally is not a Barbie car.” I hooked an arm under her. “She is a classic. And she’s about to be the classiest ambulance in town.”
The car in question sat in the driveway gleaming in the light, all curves and chrome, smug as hell.
My pride and joy. She smelled faintly of old leather and motor oil, with a dash of vanilla from the air freshener I hung off the mirror last month.
She was built for long drives with the windows down and a killer playlist, not chauffeuring a woman who looked like she was smuggling a watermelon under her ribs.
I pursed my lips, Maria leaning heavily against my side as we both contemplated the beautiful car we were about to soak in baby juice.
Maria squinted at Sally like she was the enemy. “Your car is—”
I held up my hands defensively. “Don’t drag Sally into this. She didn’t ask to be born that way.”
“She wasn’t designed to haul a pregnant woman in active labor. Holly, there’s barely enough space for you in there.”
“Relax. She’s got plenty of room.” I hurried to pop the passenger door, the hinges groaning like they knew we were about to attempt the impossible. “Ok, here’s the plan: you slide in sideways, butt-first, then pivot your legs—”
Maria gave me a flat look. “Do I look like I can pivot?”
“Fine. Less pivot, more…shove.”
Her laugh came out strangled, half a groan. “If you start quoting Ross Geller at me, I swear to God—”
But we tried it anyway. She braced her hands on the roof, angled herself sideways, and we both realized instantly this was going to be a full-contact sport. Her belly bumped the dash, her hip caught on the seat frame, and the seatbelt buckle jabbed her thigh.
“This car,” Maria grunted, breath coming in sharp bursts, “was built for cigarettes and bad decisions, not a nine-pound baby trying to escape.”
“Don’t insult her when she’s doing her best!” I huffed, putting my shoulder into it. The sight of me shoving my pregnant best friend into my vintage Mustang probably belonged on some kind of “what not to do” PSA, but damn it, we were committed now.
“Ow, Holly!”
“Sorry! Almost there! Just—pivot, for the love of God!”
With a final grunt, she popped into the seat like a cork into a bottle. Both of us sat there panting like we’d just wrestled a bear.
Maria let her head fall back dramatically. “Comfortable,” she deadpanned. “Like a turkey in a toaster oven.”
“Perfect fit,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
She cracked one eye open at me. “If I give birth in this seat…you are never getting that out. You know that right?”
I attempted to click her seatbelt into place, gave up the fight, and patted Sally’s dash. “Don’t listen to her, baby girl. You’ve got this. Just get us there and I’ll give you a wax and polish after.”
Maria groaned. “If you talk to your car one more time, I’m walking.”
“Good luck with that.” I started the engine, and Sally purred like she was eager to see her mission through.
And then, of course, the second I pulled out of the driveway, brake lights flared ahead of me. I slammed the brakes, Maria screeched, and the Mustang fishtailed just enough to make my heart leap into my throat.
“Barbie car,” Maria hissed, clutching the dash as another contraction hit.
“We’re alive, aren’t we?” I shot her a grin, though my hands white-knuckled. “Totally fine.”
I peeled out of the driveway with one hand on the wheel and the other dialing Diego. He picked up instantly.
“The eagle is landing!” I shouted. Next to me, Maria propped her knees on the dash and cradled her belly.
“Huh?”
“The chicken is flying the coop!”
Maria groaned, clutching the dash. “My baby is not a bird!”
There was another beat of silence. Then Diego’s voice cracked: “…wait. Oh fuck.”
“Now he gets it,” I muttered.
A clattering sound followed, and his voice went faint as if he’d dropped the phone. “I’m going to be a father! I’m a dad! A dad!”
I rolled my eyes, but Maria’s soft laugh seemed to ease her pain, even if just for a moment.
A second later, Dalton’s voice cut in. “Idiot dropped his phone. And left it. I’ll drop it by the hospital later. Good luck? Does this make me an uncle?”
I looked down at my phone on my lap and started to respond.
“Focus on the road, Holly!” Maria hissed, another contraction apparently hitting as her pretty face screwed like a twist of pain.
“I am focusing!” I shot back, though my hands were shaking on the wheel. “Mostly.”
By the time I screeched up to the hospital, my nerves were sparking like live wires.
I half dragged, half guided Maria through the automatic doors.
We got her into a room, and suddenly everything blurred—nurses wheeling monitors, snapping on gloves, checking charts.
I stuck to Maria’s side like Velcro, clutching the little cup of ice chips like it was sacred.