18. Josephine #2
I close the cabinet with more force than necessary. “What if I don’t want to have fun?”
Penny’s expression changes. “Then don’t. Just stand next to me and judge everyone’s dancing.”
That does sound mildly appealing.
Still, I hesitate.
The barn dance.
The rodeo grounds.
Music, people, gossip, too much attention, too many chances for someone to notice I’m not drinking, or that my face goes pale every time fried food smells too strong, or that I keep touching my stomach when I’m not paying attention.
And Clay.
He might be there.
That thought arrives unwanted and fully formed.
Clay with his broken leg and his restless eyes. Clay who said he didn’t forget about me. Clay who makes casual feel like a lie I keep trying to tell myself.
But he might be alright again now. He may well have left town again—I mean, why would he tell me where he is?
I look around the clinic, at the polished counters, the labeled supplies, the files in their proper places. My controlled little world.
Then I look back at Penny.
“One hour,” I say.
She lights up.
“One hour,” I repeat firmly. “No forced socializing. No making me dance with anyone.”
“Fine.”
“And if I say I want to leave, we leave.”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“And no ridiculous makeover.”
She hesitates.
My eyes narrow. “Penny.”
“Define ridiculous.”
Apparently, Penny’s definition of not ridiculous includes curling my hair, applying mascara with the focus of a surgeon, and making me try on three dresses in my bedroom while she sits cross-legged on my bed eating crackers from my pregnancy stash.
“You know those are mine,” I say from the bathroom.
“You have sixteen sleeves. I’m supporting you by taste testing.”
“You're stealing.”
“You’re glowing,” she calls.
I stare at my reflection another second before answering. “I’m sweating.”
“That too.”
I look at myself in the mirror and try to decide whether I recognize the woman staring back.
The dress Penny eventually chose is soft and dark green, with tiny cream flowers scattered over the fabric. It’s simple. Not too short. Not too tight. It ties at the waist, which Penny says is flattering, and I say is practical because I can loosen it if nausea makes me hate all clothing.
My hair is down for once, chestnut waves brushing my shoulders instead of twisted into its usual low bun. My freckles stand out across my nose and cheeks. My eyes look too big.
I look…
Soft.
That unsettles me more than it should.
I step out.
Penny gasps dramatically.
“No,” I say.
“You look beautiful.”
“I said no.”
“You can’t ‘no’ objective truth.”
“I look unlike myself.”
“Maybe you look like a version of yourself who’s allowed to go outside without carrying antiseptic wipes in three pockets.”
“I still have wipes in my bag.”
“Of course you do. Growth has limits.”
I glance down at myself, smoothing the skirt. “It’s too much.”
“It’s not.”
“I don’t dress like this.”
“You look fab.”
“I’ll be uncomfortable.”
“You’re uncomfortable in jeans too right now because your body is staging a revolution.”
Fair.
I meet my own eyes in the mirror again.
My hand drifts toward my stomach. The dress shows nothing. Of course it doesn’t. It’s too early. There's no visible evidence that my life has split into before and after.
But I know.
That changes everything.
Penny notices. Her smile fades into something softer. “You okay?”
I breathe in slowly. “I don’t know. I keep thinking…” I stop, embarrassed by the thickness in my voice.
She waits.
I swallow. “I keep thinking I should feel different. Maternal or certain or… something. But mostly I feel terrified and tired, and like I’m one unexpected expense away from losing my mind.”
Penny stands and comes to me, cracker still in hand. “That sounds pretty normal.”
“Does it?”
“I have no authority on this, but yes.”
A laugh escapes me.
She reaches for my hand. “You don’t have to become someone else overnight.”
“I might have to.”
“No. You have to become a mother. That’s not the same as erasing yourself.”
My eyes sting. I look away before it can become worse.
Penny squeezes my hand. “Tonight's just music, bad dancing, and Clara’s cookies. That’s all.”
“And gossip.”
“Yes, but the cookies balance it out.”
I exhale.
Music. Bad dancing. Cookies.
One hour.
I can do one hour.
The rodeo grounds look different strung with lights.
I’ve only been here in passing, during daylight, when the arena is all dust and weathered boards and empty bleachers. Tonight, it shines.
Warm bulbs hang from rafters and fence posts, casting golden light over the open-sided barn where half of Buckhorn seems to have gathered.
Hay bales line the edges with plaid blankets tossed over them.
A fiddle band plays near one end, bright and quick, while couples move across the makeshift dance floor in boots and denim and summer dresses.
It smells like dust, grilled meat, lemonade, beer, and something sweet I suspect came from Buttercup Bakery. Penny links her arm through mine before I can retreat. “See? Festive.”
“Loud,” I mutter.
Penny grins wider. “Festive and loud.”
Mayor Ruth Caldwell sweeps past with a clipboard, directing two teenagers carrying a tub of ice. Earl Haskins’s booming laugh rolls over the music from somewhere near the announcer’s stand. I spot Clara Jenkins at a dessert table, arranging pies like she’s staging a culinary ambush.
Buckhorn does community with terrifying efficiency.
“Penny!” Clara calls, waving us over. “And Dr. Wright! Come here, both of you.”
“Oh good,” I murmur. “Immediate socializing.”
Penny pats my arm. “Bravery.”
Clara’s smile is warm and sharp-eyed. “Don’t you look pretty, honey.”
I resist the urge to tug at my dress. “Thank you.”
“You need pie.”
“I’m okay.”
“Nonsense. Everyone needs pie.” Her gaze flicks over me, assessing in that way older women in small towns have, as though they can identify emotional distress by posture alone. “You look a little pale.”
Penny steps smoothly in. “Long day at the clinic.”
“Animals never do schedule their emergencies politely,” Clara says, cutting a small slice of apple pie and placing it on a napkin. “Here. Just a bite.”
I take it because refusing feels like work. The first bite is warm, sweet, and cinnamon-heavy. My stomach considers rebelling, then decides to allow it.
“Good?” Penny asks.
“Annoyingly.”
Clara beams. “That’s what I like to hear.”
We drift away before Clara can decide I need feeding more aggressively. Penny finds us lemonade, and I take small, careful sips while scanning the crowd despite myself.
I don’t see Clay.
I shouldn’t be looking.
I tell myself I’m only being prepared. Situational awareness. Perfectly reasonable.
I do see Rose near the edge of the dance floor, laughing as Wyatt stomps around on Boone’s boots while Ellie claps along. Faith is talking animatedly to Jessie Alvarez by the refreshments. Tessa sits nearby with baby Hailey tucked against her chest.
The McCoys seem woven into the entire event.
They don’t just attend things around here. They anchor them.
Penny follows my gaze. “They’re a lot, huh?”
“Yes.”
“In a good way?”
I take another sip of lemonade. “In an intimidating way.”
“Same thing around here.”
I watch Tessa smile down at her baby and have to look away after a second.
There’s something dangerous about seeing happiness this close up when I still have no idea what mine is supposed to look like.
“They all seem so connected,” I say quietly. “Do you think they’ll hate me? When they find out, I mean.”