18. Josephine
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Josephine
By six thirty in the morning, I've made three lists.
One's practical. One's financial. One's titled Things I Need To Stop Panicking About Immediately, which feels less like a list and more like a formal accusation.
I stare down at the notebook spread open on my kitchen table, pen trapped between my fingers, and try to pretend the columns make me feel better.
They don’t.
But they do give me somewhere to put the fear.
Rent.
Utilities.
Groceries.
Medical appointments.
Prenatal vitamins.
Maternity clothes eventually.
Cribs. Two.
Car seats. Two.
Diapers. An impossible number.
Childcare?
Savings?
Emergency fund?
Hospital bills?
I underline hospital bills so hard the pen nearly tears through the page. Then I write beside it: Research insurance coverage. Call Office… don’t cry while on the phone.
I sit back and press the heel of my hand between my brows.
This is fine. It’s totally manageable. People have babies every day. People have twins every day. People raise children without large families, without partners, without safety nets that feel steady beneath their feet. It happens. It's possible.
Therefore, I can do it.
That's math.
Probably.
My stomach turns, and I reach blindly for the sleeve of crackers I now keep on the table like an offering to some temperamental deity. I nibble one slowly, breathing through the wave of nausea until it passes.
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter down at my abdomen.
Nothing answers, obviously. Which is good, because if one of them kicked back this early, I’d probably pass out again and Dr. Harris would never let me live it down.
My phone buzzes.
For one dangerous second, my pulse jumps because I think it might be Clay.
It isn’t.
Penny: Checking on you. Did you sleep?
I look at the notebook. At the lists, the cup of tea I made and forgot to drink, the three crackers lined up beside my budget like tiny beige soldiers.
Josie: Yes.
Immediately, three dots appear.
Penny: Liar.
I sigh.
Josie: Some.
Penny: Better. Breakfast?
Josie: Crackers.
Penny: That's not breakfast. That's sadness with salt.
I almost smile.
Josie: I have a plan.
Penny: That’s worse.
I look at the notebook again.
No. A plan isn't worse.
A plan is how things don't fall apart. A plan is how I got through school while working part-time and pretending it didn’t hurt that my family treated my ambition like an inconvenience.
A plan is how I moved to Buckhorn with two suitcases, a job offer, and no guarantee that starting over would feel any different than leaving.
A plan is stable.
A plan stays where I put it.
People don’t always do that.
Josie: I’m fine. Work soon.
Penny: We’re discussing this later.
Josie: Looking forward to being interrogated.
Penny: You should be. I’m very charming.
I set the phone down before she can make me laugh properly.
Then I return to the lists. By seven fifteen, I have a weekly budget. By seven thirty, I have a tentative savings goal. By seven forty, I've calculated the approximate cost of raising twins through the first year and immediately decide math is cruel and should be illegal.
Still…
Numbers are numbers. They may be frightening, but they’re honest.
Unlike feelings.
Feelings are slippery. They change shape depending on whether Clay McCoy texts me with too much honesty, or whether I catch myself remembering how his hand felt at my waist, or whether I think about the way he looked on crutches in the dust at his family’s ranch, hurt and proud and trying so hard not to need anyone.
That's not helpful.
So I draw another line beneath the list and write:
Don't rely on Clay.
I stare at it.
Then I write it again, smaller.
Don't rely on anyone.
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
I hate that.
I hate the way something inside me recoils from my own certainty, as though part of me is already tired of standing alone before the real hard part has even begun.
But depending on people means giving them the power to leave gaps you have to crawl out of later. I have crawled out of enough gaps. I’m very good at it. Too good, probably.
I close the notebook.
Decision made.
I will tell Clay eventually, because he deserves to know. But telling him isn't the same thing as needing him. And whatever happens when he finds out, whatever he chooses, whatever he can or cannot offer, I need to know I can do this without him.
That feels right, sensible, safe.
So I get up, rinse my mug, wipe down the counter, reorganize the crackers in the cabinet, then immediately realize I’m cleaning because I’m anxious.
I stop with one hand still on the cabinet door. “Ridiculous.”
Then I straighten the tea boxes anyway.
Work is blessedly busy.
The kind of busy that eats whole hours without asking permission.
A golden retriever with an ear infection.
A barn cat with an abscess. Mrs. Sanderson’s cat, Mr. Biscuits, who doesn't appear emotionally unsupported so much as morally opposed to veterinary medicine.
A sheepdog with allergies. A horse consult Dr. Harris takes over because I'm still technically supposed to avoid “overdoing it,” a phrase he has taken up using with the smug authority of a man who knows I hate it.
“You’re frowning at that chart,” he says sometime after lunch.
“I’m reading.”
“You frown when you read now?”
“I frown when the handwriting is this bad.”
“That’s my handwriting.”
“I’m aware.”
He leans a shoulder against the doorway of the exam room, arms folded, mouth trying not to smile. Ever since I told him about the pregnancy, he's developed the infuriating habit of checking on me every few hours.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
His brows lift. I set the chart down.
“I'm nauseous, tired, mildly irritable, and currently resisting the urge to reorganize your entire vaccine fridge by expiration date.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
“Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
I roll my eyes and reach for a disinfectant wipe.
He watches me, and his expression softens in that quietly perceptive way of his that makes me feel seen when I’d prefer very much not to be.
“You know,” he says, “you don’t have to decide everything today.”
My hand stills. “I’m not deciding everything.”
“Mm.”
“I’m making plans.”
“Plans are good.”
“Yes.”
“Unless you’re using them to avoid feeling anything.”
I look over my shoulder. “That sounds like something from a pamphlet.”
“It was a very good pamphlet.”
“I’m not avoiding.”
He gives me a look. I hate that everyone has started looking at me as if I'm transparent.
“I’m being practical,” I say.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. I have to be practical. I can’t just…” I gesture sharply, not even sure what I mean. Fall apart? Hope? Trust the wrong person? “I can’t just wait and see what happens.”
His expression remains calm. “No one is asking you to.”
“Good.”
“But practical doesn’t have to mean alone.”
I look down at the counter and wipe the same clean spot three times. “I’m not alone. I have Penny.”
“You do.”
“And you.”
“You do.”
“And a job.”
“Yes.”
“And a budget.”
His mouth twitches. “Naturally.”
“So I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue, which makes it worse. A beat passes. Then he says, “You’re allowed to be scared, Josephine.”
My grip tightens around the wipe. I want to deny it. The words are ready. Familiar. Automatic. But I can’t quite force them out, because I'm scared.
I'm scared of doing the wrong thing. Scared of needing too much. Scared of telling Clay and watching his face change. Scared of not telling him and carrying this alone until alone becomes the only thing I know how to be.
I toss the wipe into the bin. “Fear doesn’t change the facts.”
“No,” Dr. Harris says gently. “But ignoring it won’t either.”
I look at him then. I think I might cry, which is unacceptable.
So I reach for the chart again. “Mr. Biscuits needs his follow-up scheduled.”
Dr. Harris studies me, then nods. “He does.”
I appreciate him for letting me retreat.
I hate that I need him to.
By the time five o’clock rolls around, I'm exhausted enough that my bones feel filled with wet sand.
I’m locking the clinic cabinet when the front door opens, and Penny walks in with effortless confidence.
She’s wearing a denim skirt, boots, and a top with tiny embroidered flowers that looks entirely too cheerful for the amount of emotional interference she usually brings with her.
“No,” I say immediately.
She stops mid-step. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know your face.”
“My face is lovely.”
“Your face is planning something.”
“Also true.” She grins. “You’re coming to the barn dance tonight.”
“No.”
“See? That was too fast. You didn’t consider it.”
“I considered it earlier when I remembered it existed, and I decided no.”
“You didn't decide no. You hid behind work.”
“I was working at work. That’s generally encouraged.”
She plants both hands on the counter. “Josie.”
“Penny.”
“You need to leave your house for something that isn’t employment or medical panic.”
The fact that she’s right irritates me immediately. “I leave my house.”
“To go to work.”
I roll my eyes. “And the grocery store.”
“Where you buy crackers and cleaning supplies. That doesn't count as enrichment.”
“I’m not some tragic exhibit.”
Penny arches a brow. “Then stop acting like you’re trapped.”
I narrow my eyes. “That was almost profound. I don’t like it.”
“Thank you.” She leans closer. “You’re coming.”
“I’m tired.”
“You can be tired there.”
“I’m nauseous.”
“They have lemonade.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
Her smile widens in a way that fills me with dread. “I brought options.”
Of course she did.
“Penny—”
“No.” Her tone softens, but only slightly. “You’ve been living inside your own head for a week. Lists. Budgets. Worry. Repeat. You need one night where you remember you're a person and not just a crisis management system.”
My throat tightens before I can stop it. I look away first. “That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be around half the town.”
“Good news. Half the town already thinks you’re mysterious and slightly intimidating, so no one will bother you for long.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It should be.”