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 foryouin 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 canpivot?”
“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.
