43. Clay
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Clay
I used to think eight seconds was a long time. Long enough for your whole life to narrow to one thing. A breath, a grip, a choice between hanging on and hitting dirt.
I was wrong.
Eight seconds is nothing.
Eight seconds is easy.
Eight seconds is a mercy compared to standing beside the woman you love while a monitor beeps too fast, nurses move with quiet purpose, and nobody in the room is telling you enough to make your heart stop trying to claw its way out of your chest.
Labor is not loud at first.
That is what surprises me.
I expected yelling and panic. People rushing around like something out of a movie.
Instead, it starts in the dark of our bedroom before dawn, with Josie’s hand gripping my forearm and her voice, tight and controlled, saying my name like she already knows exactly what’s happening and just needs me to catch up.
“Clay.”
I wake instantly.
I nearly roll off the bed, smack my elbow against the nightstand, and send a glass of water sloshing dangerously close to the stack of baby books Josie keeps there despite pretending they annoy her.
“What? What is it?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her eyes close.
Her lips part.
One hand presses beneath the curve of her belly while the other tightens on my arm hard enough to make my pulse jump.
Outside, November rain taps against the windows, steady and cold.
The room is dim, gray blue with the first hint of morning still hours away, and for one strange second, I notice everything.
Her hair loose over her shoulder. The half-folded blanket kicked near the end of the bed.
The tiny knitted socks sitting on top of the dresser because she said she didn’t want them packed away yet.
Then she exhales. “I think it’s time.”
Every thought leaves my head at once.
I stare at her like she just spoke in another language, which is a poor choice, because this is exactly the moment I’m supposed to be calm and useful and not a complete embarrassment to the McCoy name.
Josie blinks at me. “Clay.”
“Right.” I throw the covers back. “Right. Time. Babies. Hospital.”
She winces again, and the panic ripping through me sharpens into something more useful.
I move.
I get her bag from the chair by the closet.
I grab the folder with all the hospital paperwork she organized three separate times.
I pull on jeans, nearly inside out, then fix them when Josie points at me with the exhausted patience of a woman who has accepted she may be raising three kids instead of two.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“You’re already doing great.”
Her mouth twitches, but another contraction steals the almost-smile before it can fully form.
I go to her.
This time, I don’t say anything.
I just sit on the edge of the bed and let her squeeze my hand while she breathes through it. Her fingers are cold. Mine are shaking. I don’t think she notices. Or maybe she does and chooses to be kind.
When the contraction passes, she leans forward and rests her forehead against my shoulder.
For months I’ve imagined this moment.
Not in detail. I wasn't brave enough for details.
But I’ve imagined getting her to the hospital, calling my mom, texting my brothers, seeing our babies for the first time.
Somehow, in every version of it, I forgot the part where fear would sit in my throat like a stone.
This isn't a rodeo. There's no buzzer, no gate, no rope to grip while I pretend I'm in control.
There’s only Josie, exhausted before the sun has even come up, carrying two lives inside her body and trusting me to be steady.
So I do the only thing I can.
I put my hand over hers. “I’m right here, Doc.”
Her eyes close. “I know.”
Those two words nearly undo me.
Because she does know.
After everything, after all the times I ran or froze or made the wrong choice because fear looked too much like freedom, Josephine Wright believes I’ll stay.
And I swear to every god listening, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving her right.
The hospital is already awake by the time we get there.
Lights bright, floors shining, nurses moving like they’ve been expecting us, which they probably have, considering Josie’s doctor told us twins like to make their own schedule and then looked directly at me as if I personally had something to do with that.
The McCoy family starts arriving in waves.
Mom arrives first, because of course she does. She walks into the waiting area with a coat thrown over her nightgown, hair pinned back badly, and the look of a woman prepared to fight God if necessary.
Then Boone and Rose.
Dallas and Faith.
Nash and Tessa.
Penny shows up a few minutes later, breathless and pale, clutching a tote bag full of snacks like she’s preparing for a siege.
Dr. Harris shows up not long after in a wrinkled coat and boots that look like he stepped straight out of a barn.
Josie sees him and immediately tears up.
“I’m not crying,” she says.
“No one said you were,” Dr. Harris replies, far too gently for his usual level of sarcasm.
“I hate all of you.”
“I know.”
I stand beside her bed with one hand on her shoulder while the room fills with family, and something strange happens.
For a moment, I’m back in April.
In this same hospital. The same white walls and the same too-bright lights.
Back then, Tessa was in labor, Nash had looked terrified, and I’d stood off to the side feeling like the only man in the room without a place.
Everyone had belonged to someone.
Boone to Rose. Dallas to Faith. Nash to the life opening up in front of him.
And me?
I’d been the brother who came home when called but never stayed long enough to be counted on.
Now Boone squeezes the back of my neck and tells me I’ve got this. Dallas presses coffee into my hand I don’t remember asking for. Nash tries to make a joke, fails badly, and hugs me hard enough to make my ribs creak.
Mom cups my face the way she hasn’t since I was a kid and says, “Your father would be proud.”
That does it.
I have to look away, because I believe her now.
I believe that Dad would’ve stood here today with his arms crossed and his eyes suspiciously wet, pretending he had dust in them.
I believe he would’ve clapped a hand on my shoulder and told me to take care of my family.
I believe he left that money not because he thought I’d fail, but because he hoped one day I’d have something worth building.
And now I do.
Josie reaches for me.
The second her fingers curl around mine, everything else falls away.
“You okay?” she asks.
I laugh because the question is insane.
She’s in a hospital bed, face pale, body working harder than I can comprehend, and she is still checking on me.
I bend down and kiss her forehead. “I love you.”
Her eyes soften. “I love you too.”
Then the next contraction hits.
And this time, she doesn’t hide how much it hurts.
Hours pass.
Long, brutal hours.
The kind that stretch so far they stop feeling connected to clocks.
Morning becomes afternoon. Afternoon becomes evening. The rain keeps tapping against the window like the whole world has gone quiet and left this room as the only place anything important is happening.
Josie grows quieter as the labor gets harder.
That scares me more than yelling would have. A shout, a curse, anything would give the fear somewhere to land.
But Josie just folds inward, breathing through contractions, gripping my hand, saving every bit of strength she has for the next wave.
The doctors keep checking her.
The nurses keep adjusting monitors.
Baby A looks good.
Baby B looks good.
They keep saying that.
Good. Stable. Progressing. The words keep coming, each one meant to reassure me. Because I’ve heard men say a ride looked good two seconds before everything went wrong.
I know how quickly good can change.
At one point, between contractions, Josie looks up at me through damp lashes. “You’re quiet.”
“Didn’t know you’d ever complain about that.”
Her mouth twitches.
It isn’t a smile, not quite, but I’ll take it.
“You’re scared.”
I don’t answer fast enough.
Her fingers shift against mine. “Clay.”
“I’m not scared of them,” I say, voice rough.
“I know.”
“I’m not scared of being their dad.”
“I know that too.”
My jaw tightens.
I stare at our joined hands because looking at her makes the words harder. “I’m scared of losing you.”
The room seems to still.
Her face changes. Softens in a way that breaks me open. “Oh, Clay.”
“I know. I know that’s not helpful right now.”
“It is,” she whispers.
My throat burns. “No, it isn’t. You’re doing all the work, and I’m standing here thinking about myself.”
“You’re thinking about me.”
I huff out something that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt. “Yeah. Always.”
She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them again. “I’m here.”
I nod.
“I need you to believe that.”
I press her hand to my mouth. “I’m trying.”
“No.” Her grip tightens, surprisingly firm. “Believe it.”
I look at her then.
At the woman who built her whole life around not needing anyone. The woman who used to treat help like a threat. The woman who kept my babies safe inside her while I was still figuring out how to become the kind of man who deserved to know them.
She’s exhausted and in pain. Afraid, though she’s trying not to be. And still, she's the one holding me together.
That's who Josie is. It always has been.
I lean close until my forehead touches hers.
“You’re here,” I say quietly. “I’m here. The babies are here. We’re doing this together.”
Her breath shakes. “Together.
Another contraction rises before I can answer, and she crushes my hand hard enough to make my vision flash white.
I don’t pull away.
I wouldn’t if she broke every bone.
When they finally say it’s time to push, the room changes.
I feel it before anyone explains it.
The air sharpens, people move faster, a second team waits near the warmer because twins require more hands, more eyes, more everything.
The doctor’s voice stays calm, but there’s a focus in it that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Josie hears it too.