38. Josephine
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Josephine
By the time I arrive at the clinic, Dr. Harris is already standing at the front desk with two coffees, a stack of charts, and the expression of a man preparing for battle.
That is never a good sign before eight in the morning.
I slow just inside the doorway. “Should I be concerned?”
He looks up over the rim of his glasses. “That depends on how attached you are to peace.”
“I haven't had any since April, so I’ll manage.”
His mouth twitches, but his gaze drops to my middle before returning to my face with the same watchful concern he's been carrying around lately. He never makes me feel fragile, which I appreciate, but he has developed the habit of watching me as if I might attempt to wrestle a steer while nobody’s looking.
Given my history with poor decisions and large animals, he may have a point.
“We’ve got a full morning,” he says, handing me the coffee that is, unfortunately, more milk than anything else. “Two vaccination appointments, one horse with a swollen hock, a barn cat with attitude, and Mrs. Avery’s terrier.”
I wince. “Snowy?”
“Snowy.”
The morning unfolds exactly as promised, which mostly means putting out one small disaster after another.
Snowy attempts to bite three people and nearly succeeds twice.
The horse with the swollen hock belongs to a rancher who believes Google has made him a veterinary specialist, and the barn cat spends most of her exam glaring at me with the cold judgment of an unpaid landlord.
By late morning, I’m washing my hands for the fourth time when a wave of dizziness creeps over me.
It passes quickly, but not quickly enough.
Dr. Harris notices from the doorway. “Sit.”
I dry my hands. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask for a character statement. I said sit.”
The firmness in his voice leaves no room for argument, which is annoying because I’d been preparing one. I lower myself onto the stool near the counter while he pulls a bottle of water from the little refrigerator beneath the cabinet.
“I had breakfast,” I tell him before he can ask.
He hands me the water. “What kind?”
“Toast.”
“Plural?”
I pause.
His eyebrows rise.
“One piece,” I admit.
“Josephine.”
“I was running late.”
“You live seven minutes away.”
“Eight if there’s a tractor.”
“There was no tractor.”
I unscrew the cap and take a drink rather than answer, which he seems to interpret correctly.
He sighs, but there’s no sharpness in it. “You’re allowed to need more than sheer willpower and half a piece of bread.”
“It was a whole piece.”
“Thin bread doesn’t count.”
Despite myself, I smile. “That feels medically questionable.”
“I’ve been practicing longer than you’ve been alive. I’m comfortable making bold claims about toast.”
The smile fades into something softer before I can stop it. I look down at the water bottle, turning it slowly between my hands.
“I’m trying,” I say.
His expression shifts. Pity would've made me bristle, but this isn't pity. It's understanding. “I know you are.”
The knot in my throat tightens hard enough that I have to look away.
I take another drink, mostly to give myself time to swallow the sudden tightness in my throat. Dr. Harris waits without filling the silence, which is one of the reasons I trust him. People who rush in with solutions usually leave a mess behind.
After a moment, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a granola bar.
I stare at it. “Do you keep those on you now?”
“Emergency supplies.”
“For livestock?”
“For stubborn young veterinarians growing two humans.”
I take it from him, because arguing would only prove his point. “That was very specific.”
“I’ve adapted to the local wildlife.”
I tear open the wrapper. “You’re becoming bossy.”
“I was always bossy. You were too busy pretending not to need anyone to notice.”
The words are gentle, but they land exactly where they’re meant to.
I glance away, watching sunlight stretch across the exam room floor. For so long, needing no one has been the only way I knew how to feel safe. It had never occurred to me that people might show up without demanding pieces of me in return.
Penny did.
The McCoy women did.
Dr. Harris has been doing it quietly for months.
And now Clay’s trying too.
That thought still feels too delicate to touch for long.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my scrub pants before I can drift too far into my own head. I pull it out, expecting Penny, but Clay’s name lights up the screen.
Clay: Are you sitting down?
I blink.
Josie: That’s a concerning way to start a conversation.
Clay: Answer the question, Doc.
Josie: Yes.
Clay: Good. I have important news.
I glance at Dr. Harris, who’s pretending not to read over my shoulder with the subtlety of a man standing three feet away.
Josie: Did Nash buy matching saddles for unborn babies?
Clay: Worse.
Josie: I’m afraid to ask.
Clay: I read another article.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Dr. Harris’s attention sharpens. “That sounded promising.”
“It’s Clay.”
“Ah.” His mouth curves. “Then promising may be generous.”
I turn slightly away from him, still smiling.
Josie: We talked about internet articles.
Clay: This one was educational.
Josie: Did it have pictures?
Clay: Several.
Josie: Then clearly it was peer-reviewed.
Clay: I knew you’d be proud.
I shake my head and fail completely at suppressing my smile.
Clay: Apparently twins can hear sounds earlier than you think.
My smile softens.
Josie: That part is true.
Clay: So I should start saying impressive things now.
Josie: Is that something you’re capable of doing on command?
Clay: Woman, I am full of impressive things.
Josie: Name one.
A pause follows.
Clay: I can stay on an angry bull for eight seconds.
Josie: The babies are going to need more than that.
Clay: Good thing I’m charming.
Josie: That remains under review.
Clay: You wound me.
Josie: You’ll survive.
Clay: Only if you let me take you out tonight.
I stare at the message longer than necessary.
The clinic noise fades a little around me. Somewhere down the hall, a dog barks, and Dr. Harris moves back toward the front desk, giving me privacy without making a show of it.
A date. An actual planned date, with a time and a question mark attached to it.
The idea shouldn’t make me nervous, but it does. It also makes me happier than I know what to do with.
Josie: You’re asking?
Clay: I’m trying to. Is it working?
Josie: It needs improvement.
Clay: Josephine Wright, will you let me take you on a date tonight?
I press my lips together to keep from smiling too widely.
Josie: Yes.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Clay: Good. Six thirty. Wear something that makes me stupid.
I nearly drop the phone.
Josie: That bar seems low.
Clay: Cruel woman.
Josie: Honest woman.
Clay: Wear the blue dress if you still have it.
My fingers still over the screen.
I do have it. I wore it once weeks ago, before everything between us became tangled and terrifying and important. I hadn’t thought he’d noticed it enough to remember.
Josie: You remember that dress?
Clay: I remember everything I shouldn’t.
My face warms.
Dr. Harris reappears near the doorway with a chart in hand. “If you’re blushing over my patient files, I’m concerned.”
“I’m not blushing.”
He studies me for half a second. “That’s a lie, but an optimistic one.”
I lock my phone and stand. “We have patients.”
“We do.” He hands me the chart with exaggerated solemnity. “Try not to smile too aggressively at them. Mrs. Avery will assume we’ve raised our prices.”
The afternoon passes more easily after that. Not because the work slows down, but because Clay’s messages keep finding me between appointments.
Clay: Do you think babies need boots?
Josie: Eventually, yes.
Clay: Tiny boots?
Josie: Usually.
Clay: That feels dangerous.
Josie: Why?
Clay: Because if I see tiny boots, I’ll buy twelve pairs.
Josie: Please don’t.
Clay: Too late. I’ve already committed.
Later, while I’m updating notes, another one appears.
Clay: Nash says babies don’t need belt buckles.
Josie: Nash is correct.
Clay: I hate when that happens.
Josie: Get used to it. Parenting will require growth.
Clay: I’m growing. I ate breakfast.
Josie: Did Boone force you?
Clay: That’s not relevant.
By the time I leave the clinic, I’m tired in the deep, full-body way that makes even walking to my car feel overly ambitious, but I’m smiling.
That may be the more alarming symptom.
At home, I shower, dry my hair, and stand in front of my closet with far too much seriousness for a woman who has delivered calves at two in the morning and once removed porcupine quills from a hound while the owner cried harder than the dog.
I remind myself it's only dinner, which works right up until I remember who's taking me. At that point, the entire argument falls apart.
Eventually I take out the blue dress. It’s softer than most of my clothes, with little buttons down the front and a skirt that moves around my knees.
I pair it with boots because I still need to feel like myself, and by the time I hear the knock on my door, my nerves have settled into something almost pleasant.
Clay is standing on my porch when I open the door, one hand braced against his crutch and the other holding a small bundle of wildflowers tied with twine.
His gaze drops over me, and whatever easy greeting he’d prepared seems to vanish completely.
I lift an eyebrow. “You told me to wear it.”
“I know.” He swallows. “That doesn’t mean I was prepared.”
My cheeks heat. “You’re very dramatic.”
“I’m injured. I’m allowed flair.”
“You have a fractured leg, not a theater career.”
His grin spreads across his face. "You say that now, but wait until I perform my heroic limp to the truck. Plus, you know as well as I do, my leg’s almost healed."
I glance at the flowers because looking at him too long feels dangerous. They’re a little uneven, mostly yellows and whites with a few purple blooms tucked between them, and one of the stems is bent at an odd angle, and I wouldn't change a thing.
“You brought flowers.”
“I did.”
“Did Rose tell you to?”