34. Josephine #2
I shake my head, but the image forms before I can stop it: two little babies on this ranch, surrounded by cousins, aunties, uncles, Maggie, Rusty stealing snacks from their tiny hands.
A full life, not the tightly controlled version I'd been planning because I thought it was my only option.
Clay looks over and seems to read enough of my face to quiet his smile. “What scared you just then?”
The denial arrives automatically.
Instead, I breathe through it. “I pictured them here.”
His gaze softens. “And that scared you?”
“It made me want it.”
Clay doesn’t speak right away.
I press my fingers together in my lap. “That’s scarier.”
“Because you think wanting it means it can be taken away.”
I look at him sharply.
He lifts one shoulder. “I’m learning from the best. Cutting straight through the bullshit, right?”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth, but it doesn’t last. “I spent years building a life where I didn’t have to depend on anybody. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine, and I knew what would happen every day because I controlled as much of it as possible.”
Clay leans back against the swing, listening.
“My family wasn’t…” I stop, searching for the cleanest version of a messy truth. “They weren’t reliable. Support came with strings, or judgment, or disappointment waiting at the end. So I got good at not needing it.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was efficient.”
Crickets chirp beyond the porch while I gather my thoughts.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified, but part of me still knew how to function. Make lists, build a budget, find childcare, rearrange my schedule. Prepare for the worst possible outcome and pretend that means I’m calm.”
Clay’s mouth twitches faintly, but his eyes stay serious.
“Then I found out there were two,” I continue, hand drifting to my stomach. “And suddenly the plan didn’t feel big enough. Nothing did.”
His hand moves slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away before he touches me.
“I’m sorry you were scared alone,” he says.
The words are simple, but they land hard because he doesn’t try to excuse any of it. He doesn’t promise I’ll never feel scared again, which would be impossible and insulting. He just sits beside me and acknowledges the part that hurt most.
“I didn’t want you to feel trapped,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “I hate that you had to worry about that.”
“I still worry about it.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious, Clay. Today was huge and emotional, and maybe right now you mean everything because it’s new. Because you’re relieved, or shocked, or trying to do the right thing.”
“I am trying to do the right thing.”
“That’s not enough for me.”
He nods once, expression steady. “Good.”
That throws me. “Good?”
“Yeah. You shouldn’t settle for me doing this out of guilt.”
“I don’t want you to resent us.”
His gaze fixes on mine. “Us?”
“Me. The babies. Buckhorn. Your family. All of it.”
Clay looks away toward the dark yard, and for a moment I worry I’ve pushed too hard.
He watches the yard for several seconds before speaking. “When you told me in that motel room, I was terrified. I still am. I don’t know how to be a father, and I don’t know how to be the man you need every day instead of only when I’m brave enough to show up.”
My throat tightens.
“But resentment?” He turns back to me. “No. That’s not what I felt.”
“What did you feel?”
He lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Happy.”
The word is soft, almost disbelieving.
“I know how that sounds after the way I acted,” he continues. “I know I don’t deserve for you to believe it just because I say it now, but the second you said twins, every stupid thing I’d been chasing felt small.”
I hold very still.
Clay’s thumb moves over the back of my hand. “I thought the circuit was freedom because nobody could ask me to stay. Turns out that gets old when there’s nowhere you actually want to be.”
“And now you want to be here?”
“I want to be where you are.”
My heart squeezes hard enough to hurt, because that's exactly what I wanted him to say.
Maybe that's why I don't trust it.
I look down at our hands where they're resting together between us. His thumb brushes across my skin, easy and familiar, and part of me wants to grab hold of this feeling before it disappears.
I've wanted plenty of things before.
Wanting never guaranteed I'd get to keep them.
"You've got that look again," Clay says.
I glance up. "What look?"
"The one that says you're about three seconds away from explaining why I'm wrong."
A laugh catches in my throat despite everything. "Maybe I am."
His smile fades a little. "You still think I'm gonna leave."
"I don't know how to trust this yet," I admit.
The words scrape on the way out. He lifts one shoulder. "I've spent years proving I'm good at leaving. I'd be a hell of a hypocrite if I got mad because you're paying attention."
The laugh that escapes me comes out watery and unwanted.
His mouth curves. "There she is."
I roll my eyes immediately. "Don't."
"What? You looked like you were about to file paperwork against me."
"That's not a thing."
"It absolutely is. You're one clipboard away from becoming legally dangerous."
I shake my head, but some of the tightness in my chest loosens.
Clay's expression softens. "You get to be scared, Josie." The teasing disappears completely. "You get to take your time."
I look out toward the dark pasture. "And if I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop?"
Clay follows my gaze.
"Then I guess I'll be around when it doesn't."
My throat tightens. "I want to believe you."
The admission slips out before I can stop it.
His hand closes around mine. "I know."
Clay goes still, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
My pulse picks up, but for once it doesn’t feel like panic.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
"Josie.” My name lands somewhere between a warning and a question.
I should probably say we’re exhausted. I should remind him that today has been too much, that his leg hurts, that I was in the hospital this morning, that no responsible adult would make another emotional decision after midnight on a ranch porch.
Instead, I lean closer.
I reach for the front of his shirt and bring him to me.
The first brush of his mouth against mine is careful, almost impossibly gentle, as if he’s afraid of asking for too much after everything I’ve already given him.
But I’m tired of careful distance.
I kiss him back with all the fear and relief and hope I don’t know how to say yet, and Clay makes a rough sound low in his throat as his hand slides into my hair.
The porch swing creaks beneath us.
His other hand stays over mine against my stomach, as though he can't quite believe any of us are real yet, and when I lean into him, I don’t feel alone.
I let myself believe I'm chosen.