Page 10 of Not In The Christmas Plan
With how crazy this year has been, neither Ivy nor Braxton have had the opportunity to question how Grant and I went from partnering up at their weekly game nights, to me avoiding him at the wedding reception and every get together after.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you two,” Ivy had said when I arrived two days ago. “And frankly at this moment, I’m too tired to care. I just need you to be a big girl and be nice while he’s here. No rude remarks, no mean looks, and no sarcastic comments about the kitchen table being too small to accommodate him. He’s my family and more importantly, he’s nice. So promise me you'll be nice.”
I committed to what Ivy asked, but I can’t get myself to do the same for Braxton. After how easily I caved to Grant’s smile, I have to draw the line somewhere.
“Can I ask you for one more thing?” Braxton says.
“Of course.”
“Pray for a miracle. Ivy didn’t want to bring this up to anyone and would probably kill me if she knew I was telling you this, but these eight months have been brutal on her without your dad. She’s devastated he’s not around to meet the girls. I know he always made Christmas special for y’all, and I’d hate if her first Christmas without him was spent in a hospital. Pray that Nia and Amani get strong enough for us to make it home soon.”
A lump burns my throat. I press a hand to my chest, swallowing hard before I can answer. “I will,” I whisper, and we hang up.
I kick my flip flops off and lay on the bed, staring straight up at the ceiling until it blurs.
Ivy and Braxton need a nursery for the babies, and so I’ll give them one fit for royalty. Cribs on each side of the room with their beautiful names painted in gold. Changing tables in each corner and Ivy’s rocking chair in the middle, right in front of the window where the light spills in. A room full of peace, warmth, and love. And I’ll give them a house they can build their family’s foundation on.
The image of the finished nursery is clear in my mind, but I’m questioning if this is right. Because staying here and playing house, as much as it’s needed, while my twin is so far and out of reach feels very much wrong.
What would you do, Dad? How would you turn this disaster around?
That was one of his specialties, turning whatever mess life gave us into a celebration.
Like the time I offered to make dinner while he took care of the Christmas tree he’d brought home. I accidentally mixed-up bake for broil and burned the chicken to a crisp. Smoke came flooding from the oven, detectors were going off like it was the end of the world, and Ivy doubled over in laughter at my so-called cooking skills. Just chaos. Then Dad swooped in with a fire extinguisher, grilled up some hot dogs, and served them picnic-style by the newly lit tree. The scent of fresh pine covered my charred disaster, and somehow the night felt magical.
If Dad were here, he’d assure me that it’s okay if I’m not at the hospital, and that Ivy and the babies will be fine. Then, he’d set about turning this place into a winter wonderland so not only would they have a beautiful nursery, but they’d also have a beautiful first Christmas.
And just like that, I know what to do.
I won’t stop at the nursery and a few donation boxes.I’lldecorate the house.I’llhang the lights, bake the cookies, and decorate the grandest tree this house has ever seen. Dad may not be here, but when Ivy walks through the door with her babies, she’ll feel his love in every corner of the home he built for us.
I close my eyes, the weight in my chest easing just enough to let sleep pull me under as my Christmas plan finally comes together.
Chapter five
“This don’t make no sense,” I mutter, flipping the wannabe slat of wood in my hands.
While sitting on the floor of the unfinished nursery, I scan for any indication that this is theLpiece. L. The manufacturer couldn’t label the pieces with stickers or even helpful numbers. Nooo, they had to go with letters in the faintest color of gray, which is almost impossible for these twenty-eight-year-old eyes to spot.
I drop the board onto the carpet and ball my fist before I’m tempted to throw it against the wall.
I am a family lawyer who’s handled paternity cases messier than the likes Maury Povich has ever seen, navigated ex-spouses with storylines juicier than The Bold And The Beautiful, and set up custody schedules that could pass for NASA launch protocols. None of that, apparently, qualifies me to assemble a crib.
“Morning,” Grant’s deep voice sounds from the doorway.
I brace myself before slowly turning around to find him looking deliciously rumpled while watching me through half-lidded eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I pick up the instructions packet again to give me something to look at other than him, squinting at the diagram. “I’m putting together the first crib. I told Braxton I’d have the nursery ready by the time they got home.”
Grant folds his arms across his broad chest and lifts a brow. “That’s funny. When I spoke to him last night, he asked for thebothof us to do it.”
I wave my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it handled. I figured with everyone gone, you’d want to head home anyway.”
Grant shakes his head while pushing off the doorframe and turning to walk away, but not before I hear him say “I knew you were going to do this.”
I chew on my bottom lip and look after him for a moment then turn back to the crib. I’m not claiming the guilt trying to work its way into my chest at his absence. The moment between Grant and me from last night, when I was emotional and therefore vulnerable to his charm, is over. I’m fully in control with a renewed purpose and plans.
