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“One day, Claudia, you’re going to have to do a load of whites without turning something pink,” Andy chastised with no force behind her words, “Could that day be before these babies are born?”
Andy swung her feet from her perch on the dryer, watching as C.J. sheepishly pulled the offending red hiking sock from the open washer. A chill clung to the January air and seeped through the windows that C.J. would religiously check were still tightly shut each morning.
“When you met me, I was pulling a load of used-to-be whites out of the washer in our building laundry room,” C.J. shrugged, “I’ve learned a lot of things but checking where I fling my socks when I come in from the snow isn’t one of them.”
“Oh, I know,” Andy replied, “And I love you anyway. And the twins can get used to wearing pink, I suppose.”
Hearing Andy talk about their family in the present, rather than future, tense caught C.J. off guard every time. It left them breathless, in awe, and just about speechless.
C.J. laughed loosely as she handed Andy the blouses that would need to be hung and pressed, rather than tumbled through the dryer. Her inability to sort laundry was her remaining domestic Achilles heel. Andy folded the blouses – three of hers, and two of C.J’s – over one arm, moving to stand up and set up the drying rack when C.J. popped up from her crouch in front of the washer.
Their hands landed on the top of the dryer, on either side of Andy’s hips, and C.J. leaned in to brush their lips to Andy’s forehead. With barely a jostle, they swept the blouses, now a pale, dusty pink, out of Andy’s hands with the same hand that brushed the swell of Andy’s abdomen.
“I’ve got it,” C.J. murmured, “You sit.”
“I’m–”
“–Pregnant, not an invalid, I know,” C.J. interjected gently, “Still, let me take care of you the little I can, please?”
“You do plenty, Claudia,” Andy assured, reaching her now free hand out to tug C.J. back by the back pocket of their jeans. C.J. lurched back, spinning on one shaky heel with all the finesse of her long-buried skating past she had admitted to Andy under influence of too much caffeine and masters thesis deadlines back in their California days. Andy moved her grip as C.J. turned, bunching the cloth just under the neckline of their henley as she pulled C.J. close to press their lips together. C.J’s entire spine loosened as she leaned into the contact, her hand coming up to hold the tip of Andy’s chin between two fingers.
“Thank you,” Andy breathed as they parted, “For taking care of us.”
C.J. ducked her head, the corner of her mouth twitching up as her cheeks reddened and she mumbled, “I try to keep my promises.”
Andy released her hold on C.J’s shirt, letting them cross the laundry room to set the drying rack up and hang the blouses up on it, adjusting them so they would lay flat rather than crease or wrinkle. As their back was turned, Andy hopped off the dryer with only mild difficulty and began to transfer the rest of the damp laundry into the dryer. She had gotten halfway through the washer drum when she felt the air behind her shift as C.J. turned, then stopped.
“Damn it, Andrea,” C.J. muttered.
“I’m stubborn and you love me for it,” Andy retorted, a wide grin plastered on her face as her hands continued to shift damp clothing from one machine to the other.
“I do, I really do, but you drive me up the wall sometimes,” C.J. groaned.
C.J. stepped closer, slotting themself in the space next to Andy so that she could hand the clothes off after removing them from the washer, rather than having to twist slightly to put them in the dryer drum. She knew better than to argue a moot point after Andy had already made a decision, but she could make the task easier on her. The washer drum quickly emptied, and C.J. started the dryer cycle as Andy shut the washer door before moving to stand.
She saw Andy falter out of the corner of her eye before she felt her shift next to her. C.J. whipped around, the finer details of the drying cycle settings lost on her as she instinctively placed one hand each on Andy’s waist and elbow, pulling the redhead close and secure against her chest.
Andy leaned her forehead against C.J’s sternum, her hands coming up to grip their biceps as she found her bearings.
“I’m alright,” Andy said, patting C.J’s arm once the pallor faded, “Just stood up too fast.”
“Just gave me a heart attack, you mean,” C.J. groaned.
“It’s all a conspiracy between the red socks, my blood pressure, and me. Sorry you had to find out like this,” Andy joked, allowing C.J. to continue holding her close where they stood. She leaned into the secure hold that C.J. had on her, moving her hands so she could wrap one arm around C.J’s neck. To her credit, C.J’s grip was steady in spite of the scare, and her arms were a warm respite from the January chill.
“On second thought,” Andy started as she moved C.J’s hand from her elbow to her bump with her free hand, “I think your children are the ones conspiring against you.”
C.J paused, confused, then looked directly at Andy with their eyes widened, “Is that–”
“That’s them,” Andy murmured.
“I–” C.J. tried to speak, but trailed off once more.
Andy rubbed soothing circles over the back of C.J’s hand as they glanced between Andy and where their hand rested in turn.
“They’re so real,” C.J. gasped.
Andy giggled, kissing C.J’s cheek softly as they stood, half speechless.
Andy’s voice shook as she remarked in the midst of C.J’s silence, “Now, that’s something to shout from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, huh?”
“You’re a damn miracle, Andrea Wyatt, that’s what you are,” C.J. murmured.
Andy chuckled, her voice light as she teased, “The real miracle would be the whites coming out unscathed while you insist on doing every chore, honey.”
If Andy could bottle the laugh that burst out of C.J. at the gentle ribbing, she would. This entire moment, really, on the cusp of everything they had hardly dared dream of. She would bottle it if only she could.
Satisfied that Andy was stable on her feet, C.J. guided them backwards so Andy leaned against the closed washing machine before she moved the arm around Andy’s waist. Her hand came to rest on Andy’s hip as she knelt down, pressing her lips against the soft fabric where their hands had both just been, followed by her forehead.
She could never have imagined this. Not for all the angles considered, the scenarios she had run. Nothing could come close to reality.
“You’re a damn miracle, Andy,” C.J. murmured, “All three of you.”