24. Josephine
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Josephine
By six fifteen, I've already changed shirts twice and considered a third.
The first one was too casual. The second looked like I was trying too hard. So I'm back in the first one again, because apparently I've reached the stage of decision-making where progress is a circle and I'm trapped inside it.
I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, smoothing both hands down the front of my blouse.
It's perfectly acceptable.
Clean, plain, and pale blue. Not giving the impression that I spent twenty-seven minutes debating whether dinner with three women I barely know required earrings.
I did choose earrings.
Small ones.
On the bed behind me, the contents of my purse are arranged in neat rows because I emptied it out to make sure I had everything I might need.
Wallet. Keys. Phone. Tissues. Hand sanitizer.
Mints. Antacid. Emergency granola bar. Tiny sewing kit.
Prenatal vitamins I absolutely don't need to bring to dinner, but there they are.
Also my little emergency kit, because I don’t leave home without it.
That's normal.
Probably.
I put everything back into my purse in the correct order, then take it all out again because my phone should be easier to reach.
This is how I know I'm nervous. I mean, I’m going to dinner. A friendly dinner. At Tessa’s house. With Rose and Faith. Women who happen to be married to Clay McCoy’s brothers.
I press a hand lightly to my stomach.
It's still too early for there to be much there. Not really. Nothing obvious beneath my clothes. But I know. My body knows. Two tiny lives tucked inside me, changing everything while the rest of the world keeps going like nothing has happened.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We can do this.”
The drive to the McCoy ranch isn't long enough.
That’s the problem with small towns. Nothing gives you adequate time to prepare.
One minute you're trying to convince yourself you're a sensible adult woman who can handle a dinner invitation, and the next, you're turning down a gravel drive toward a family ranch where every fence post appears to have been standing longer than your entire life.
The McCoy property stretches wide under the evening sky, golden and dust-soft, with cattle in the distance and a line of cottonwoods shifting in the breeze. It looks like the kind of place people belong to for generations.
I park near a smaller house tucked a little away from the main one, hands tight around the steering wheel.
Tessa steps onto the porch before I can talk myself into reversing all the way back to town.
She waves.
I wave back.
“Josephine!” she calls warmly.
I get out of the car and immediately regret not bringing something.
Flowers, wine, a casserole. Do people still bring casseroles?
I should've asked Penny. Penny would know. Penny knows things like this because Penny can talk to anyone without looking like she’s being held hostage by her own nervous system.
“Hi,” I say, walking up the porch steps. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything.”
Tessa’s smile softens. “You brought yourself. That counts.”
“That sounds generous but logistically unhelpful.”
She laughs, and the sound eases my chest by half an inch. “Come in.”
Inside, her house smells like roasted chicken, butter, and baby lotion.
It’s warm and lived in without being messy, which I immediately admire and resent in equal measure.
There are baby things tucked into corners.
A folded blanket over the arm of the couch.
A burp cloth near a stack of mail. Tiny socks on the coffee table.
I stare at them for half a second too long.
Tessa notices.
She doesn’t point it out.
Instead, she touches my arm gently. “Rose and Faith are in the kitchen. Hailey’s sleeping, for now, which means we have somewhere between four minutes and three hours. Babies like to keep expectations realistic.”
“That seems considerate of them.”
“Oh, very.”
The kitchen is bright, full of the low hum of women already comfortable with one another. Rose is at the counter slicing bread. Faith is stirring something on the stove while holding a glass of tea in her other hand, because apparently motherhood gives you extra limbs or simply removes fear.
Rose looks over first. “Josephine, hi.”
“Hi.”
Faith grins at me. “You made it.”
“I did.” I set my purse carefully on the nearest chair. “I only considered fleeing twice.”
“Only twice?” Faith says. “That’s basically enthusiasm.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
Rose laughs softly and motions me in. “Sit. Or help. Whichever makes you less uncomfortable.”
That's possibly the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.
“Helping,” I say immediately.
Tessa points to a salad bowl. “You can toss that if you want.”
Wonderful. A task. A clear task. I can handle lettuce.
I wash my hands, then take my place at the counter and focus intensely on distributing cherry tomatoes evenly, because if my life is unstable, at least this salad won't be.
For a while, dinner preparation fills the space where awkwardness might have lived.
Rose asks about the clinic. Faith tells a story about Brooklyn throwing mashed carrots at Dallas with startling accuracy.
Tessa explains that Nash tried to change Hailey’s diaper yesterday and ended up using three wipes, two diapers, and one clean shirt, none successfully.
I laugh before I can stop myself.
I'm used to quiet meals. Fast ones. Standing over my kitchen counter, scrolling through patient notes, eating toast because cooking for one person often feels more theoretical than practical.
Here, everything is noise and warmth and overlapping sentences.
It should overwhelm me.
It does, a little.
But not badly.
When we sit down to eat, Rose makes sure I have water before I ask. Faith nudges a basket of rolls toward me. Tessa watches me with the careful softness of someone who knows there's a fragile topic waiting on the table even if no one has touched it yet.
We make it through chicken, potatoes, and half the salad before Faith sets down her fork carefully. “So how bad is it?”
I blink. “How bad is what?”
“You and Clay.”
Heat crawls into my face immediately. “That’s a very direct question.”
“You’ve met the McCoys,” Faith says dryly. “Subtlety isn’t really a family strength.”
Rose shoots her a look, but there’s sympathy behind it.
I stare down at my plate for a second too long. “I don’t know what we are.”
The words come out quieter than I intend.
Tessa watches me carefully but says nothing.
“He likes you,” Rose says gently.
I laugh once under my breath. “Sometimes.”
Faith winces. “Ah.”
“That bad?” Tessa asks softly.
I press my fingers against my water glass.
“He can be sweet. Really sweet. And then suddenly it’s like he remembers he’s supposed to leave eventually.
That’s the part I can’t seem to get past,” I admit.
“I never know which version of him I’m getting.
The man who looks at me like I matter or the one already halfway out the door. ”
Rose’s expression softens. “Clay’s always been scared of staying still.”
“Why?”
Tessa and Faith exchange a glance.
“Because staying means people can disappoint you,” Tessa says quietly. “Or you can disappoint them.”
Something about that lands heavily in my chest.
I look away before anyone can see it happen.
“I don’t think he means to hurt people,” Rose says carefully.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t think he does either.”
After dinner, we clear the plates together. I try to wash dishes, but Rose physically takes the sponge from my hand.
“You’re a guest.”
“I can still help!”
Faith points at me. “Sit.”
I sit, because there are three of them and one of me, and because arguing with kind women is surprisingly exhausting.
For the next half hour, they talk around me in a way that feels inclusive without demanding too much.
Tessa checks on Hailey. Rose tells me about Ellie’s animal obsession and asks if the clinic ever needs volunteers, which I say I’ll think about even though the idea of a nine-year-old near surgical instruments gives me a mild stress rash.
Faith tells me Lila has strong opinions about everything and once tried to create a household chore union.
By the time the sun dips lower, I almost forget what I came here to do. Then Tessa returns from the nursery, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Clay’s at the main house. If you want to see him.”
Fear twists low in my chest, sharp and familiar, but underneath it sits something steadier now.
Resolve.
I can’t keep waiting for a perfect moment that doesn’t exist.
Tonight.
No more almost. I have to tell him everything.
The walk to the main house is short, but the gravel crunches under my boots like it's announcing me personally.
The house rises warm and solid in the evening light, porch wide, windows shining. It looks like a place where people gather. Where babies are brought home. Where arguments happen, and forgiveness follows because everyone assumes there will be a tomorrow together.
I don't have places like that in my life.
Before we reach the porch, the front door opens.
Maggie McCoy steps out.
I recognize her immediately from town, from the sheer authority of her posture. She has silver-streaked hair pinned neatly, sharp eyes, and the composed expression of a woman who’s survived enough to be unimpressed by most things.
Tessa smiles. “Maggie, this is Josephine Wright. She works with Dr. Harris. Clay’s friend.”
Maggie’s gaze lands on me.
I straighten like I’m being evaluated on a practical exam. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. McCoy.”
“Maggie,” she says. “Mrs. McCoy makes me sound older than I feel, and I already have sons doing that for me.”
Faith snorts.
I manage a smile. “Maggie, then.”
“You’re the young vet who handled Boone’s sick calf.”
“Yes.”
“He said you knew what you were doing.”
“Thank you.”
“Clay’s upstairs,” Maggie says. “He’s been in a mood.”
My stomach sinks.
Rose murmurs, “Maggie.”