30. Josephine
CHAPTER THIRTY
Josephine
By the time Penny drives me home from the hospital, I'm so tired my bones feel heavy.
“You are under strict orders to behave,” she informs me while kicking the door shut behind her.
“From who?”
“Me. Which should frighten you more than a doctor.”
Everything smells faintly of lavender detergent and the lemon cleaner I used on the counters three days ago. My folded blanket still sits on the arm of the couch. One of Penny’s empty coffee cups remains abandoned on the table because she has the organizational habits of a raccoon.
Normally I’d throw it away immediately.
Today, I leave it there.
Penny notices. Her eyes narrow slightly. “Wow. You’re really shaken up. You need food before you pass out.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Congratulations. You’ve become exactly like every pregnant woman in every medical pamphlet.”
I drop carefully onto the couch with a sigh. “I hate pamphlets.”
“They hate you too.”
She disappears into my kitchen before I can argue further.
The cottage settles around me while exhaustion drags at every muscle in my body. My hand drifts automatically to my stomach.
The babies are okay.
Every time I think the words, relief rushes through me all over again.
Strong heartbeats. No bleeding, no immediate danger. After almost twenty-four hours in the hospital, those words are the only thing I can still hear.
I close my eyes briefly.
The image of the ultrasound flickers back instantly. Two tiny shapes shifting on the screen while my entire future rearranged itself in real time.
My hand presses harder against my stomach before I realize I'm doing it.
“You scared me,” I whisper.
From the kitchen, Penny yells, “Are you talking to your uterus again?”
“I’m bonding.”
“You sound nuts.”
“That’s because this entire experience feels medically suspicious.”
Penny laughs under her breath while cabinets open and shut. A minute later she returns carrying crackers, peanut butter toast, and a glass of water large enough to qualify as a small aquarium.
“You need protein,” she says firmly.
I accept the plate because fighting her right now sounds exhausting.
My phone sits on the coffee table beside the water glass. Face down on the table, waiting.
Penny notices where my attention lands. “You still haven’t checked it?”
I shake my head once.
Part of me already knows.
If Clay had called, Tessa would’ve said something. Boone would’ve said something. Somebody would’ve reached out.
Nothing good ever waits on the other side of silence.
Penny lowers herself into the armchair across from me, tucking one leg underneath herself. “You don’t have to look at it yet.”
“I know.”
“You also don’t have to pretend you’re not thinking about him.”
I stare down at the crust of my toast. “I’m trying very hard to be rational.”
“That sounds miserable.”
“It usually works for me.”
“Yeah, but your current situation involves twin babies and a cowboy with emotional processing skills comparable to a startled horse.”
“That’s unfair.”
“To the horse?”
A reluctant smile tugs briefly at my mouth.
Then I reach for my phone.
The screen lights up immediately.
Voicemail: 2 minutes, 37 seconds.
My stomach tightens instantly.
Penny watches my face carefully. “Bad?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I tap play.
Clay's voice fills the apartment through the speaker, rough around the edges.
“Uh… hey, Josie.”
Every muscle in my body locks up. Clay sounds exhausted, worn thin in a way I’ve never heard before, and Penny's expression changes almost immediately. I should stop the message before this gets worse. Instead, I sit there and keep listening.
“I thought coming back out here would fix something…”
The motel noise filters faintly behind him. Music somewhere outside. Men shouting. A truck engine revving.
Then his voice again.
“I don’t fit here the way I used to.”
My throat tightens painfully.
“You always saw through me…”
I close my eyes briefly.
The emptiness in his words catches me off guard.
“I miss you.”
Beside me, Penny slowly mouths ‘oh no’.
Clay keeps talking, tripping over his own words as he tries to pull the confession back, but the damage is already done.
Then there's a second voicemail, only a few seconds long, mostly ragged breathing and a flustered, "Wait, hold on...
" before it cuts off. By the time the second message ends, my chest feels tight enough to crack open.
Penny stares at me. “Well.”
I swallow hard. “That didn’t sound good.”
“That man sounds one whiskey away from adopting a raccoon and calling it therapy.”
I huff out a startled laugh before emotion rushes right back in. Because underneath the humor, I recognize every part of it. The isolation and exhaustion. The edge in his words when he stops pretending he's fine… and I know exactly how badly mixing painkillers with alcohol can go.
I call him before I can talk myself out of it.
The phone rings.
Straight to voicemail.
“Clay,” I say quickly when the tone sounds. “Call me back.”
I hang up immediately and try again.
No answer.
I try again.
Still nothing.
My pulse starts climbing harder with every failed attempt.
“He’s probably asleep,” Penny says carefully.
“Or unconscious.”
“Josie.”
“He told me he was drinking with pain medication.”
“That doesn’t automatically mean—”
“It can suppress breathing.”
Penny presses her lips together because she knows I’m right.
I stand too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness rolls through me.
Penny points at me. “Absolutely not. Sit down before I tackle you.”
“I can’t sit down.”
“You literally just got discharged from the hospital.”
“And Clay sounds…” I stop abruptly, pressing both hands against my forehead. “He sounds wrong.”
That’s the problem.
I know him well enough now to hear the difference.
Clay usually hides pain beneath humor and movement and charm. Even when he’s upset, there’s energy behind it. Restlessness. Defiance.
The man on that voicemail barely sounds like Clay. The restlessness is gone. So is the charm he usually hides behind.
I grab my phone again and text him.
Josie: Please answer me.
A minute passes.
Nothing.
Josie: I’m serious, Clay.
Penny watches me pace carefully around the couch with growing concern. “Okay. We need a better plan than you wearing a trench through your living room.”
“I don’t have a better plan.”
“Yes, you do.” She reaches for her own phone. “You have emotionally competent ranch women.”
“Tessa already has a newborn.”
“And still somehow functions better under pressure than both of us combined.”
That’s unfortunately true.
I stop pacing long enough to press one hand against my stomach when a faint ache returns in my abdomen.
Penny notices immediately. “Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“That phrase means nothing to me anymore.”
I sink back onto the couch before she physically forces me there.
The room closes in around me.
Before I can overthink it further, I open my messages and text Tessa.
Josie: Have you heard from Clay today?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Tessa: No. Why?
I stare at the screen for a moment too long.
Then I send the voicemail.
Penny’s eyebrows lift. “Straight to emotional warfare, huh?”
“I’m concerned.”
“You’re catastrophically concerned.”
My phone buzzes less than thirty seconds later.
Tessa: Oh shit.
A second message follows immediately.
Tessa: Boone’s calling him right now.
I grip the phone tighter.
Penny quietly takes the empty plate from my lap and sets it aside.
Another message.
Tessa: No answer.
Cold unease crawls down my spine.
I type back too quickly.
Josie: He mixed whiskey and pain meds.
Three dots appear instantly.
Disappear.
Return.
Tessa: Okay. Don’t panic yet.
Terrible advice. Completely unusable.
A minute later, my phone rings.
Tessa.
I answer immediately. “Did you reach him?”
“No.” Wind rushes loudly through the speaker. “Boone’s getting dressed right now.”
Something in her voice makes my stomach drop. Movement. Urgency. “What’s happening?”
“We think we know which motel he’s staying at outside Twin Falls.” Her voice stays calm, but barely. “Boone was already worried about him before this voicemail.”
I close my eyes.
Of course he was.
“He sounded awful,” I whisper.
“I know.”
In the background, I hear Boone’s voice low and serious. A truck door slamming.
Penny straightens across the room.
“Tessa,” I say carefully, “what are you doing?”
A pause.
“Boone’s driving out there.”
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “That’s eight hours away.”
“Yes. He’ll probably drive faster than is technically legal.”
That sounds exactly right.
I press my free hand against my forehead.
Relief flickers briefly because Boone is going to him. Boone will check on him and make sure he's breathing, conscious, and not alone in that motel room with whiskey, painkillers, and whatever terrible thoughts have been chewing through him for weeks.
Then another feeling rises underneath it.
Certainty hits so hard it leaves no room for argument.
I need to go too.
The realization arrives fully formed. My brain doesn’t launch into its usual cycle of overanalyzing or start building a spreadsheet of practical reasons why this is a terrible idea.
I just know.
“Tessa,” I say slowly, “can I go too?”
Silence.
Penny’s head snaps toward me. “Josie.”
“I know,” I tell both of them at once.
Tessa exhales softly into the phone. “Are you sure?”
My hand settles over my stomach as Penny and Tessa wait for an answer.
This is a terrible idea.
I know it.
I spent half the morning in a hospital bed. Dr. Harris would probably chain me to a chair if he found out I was considering an eight-hour drive right after being discharged. Between him and Penny, I've heard enough lectures about rest, hydration, and avoiding stress to last a lifetime.
The babies are okay. That's what matters.
I should stay home, putting my feet up, and focusing on them instead of a cowboy in another state.
Yet the thought of staying here makes my chest ache.
Clay doesn't even know.
He has no idea there are twins growing inside me. No idea he's already a father. Every day I keep that secret feels harder than the day before, and hearing that voicemail only makes it worse.
I picture him alone in that motel room, hurting, drinking when he shouldn't be, carrying around whatever's been eating at him for weeks. If Boone finds him sprawled across a bed nursing a hangover, I'll feel ridiculous for worrying this much.
But if he doesn't...
The thought turns my stomach.
Maybe that's why I need to go.
Part of me wants to see with my own eyes that he's okay. Another part knows I can't keep putting off this conversation forever. He deserves the truth, even if I'm terrified of what happens after I tell him.
I draw in a breath and look back at Penny while answering Tessa.
"I'm sure," I say.
The words come easy.
Tessa doesn't answer right away. “Okay.”
Penny stares at me as I lower the phone.
“You’re aware,” she says carefully, “that this is objectively insane behavior.”
“Probably.”
“You should be resting.”
“I know.”
“You were just discharged this morning.”
“Yes.”
“And now you want to road trip across state lines for a cowboy who leaves devastating voicemails instead of attending therapy.”
I rub both hands over my face. “When you say it out loud, it does sound concerning.”
“It sounds clinically unwell.”
Despite herself, Penny’s expression softens because she can see it on my face now.
This isn't impulse. It's the fear that something terrible could happen before anyone reaches him.
“What if something happens to him?” I ask quietly.
Penny’s shoulders loosen a fraction. “Oh, honey.”
“I know he left. I know he hurt me.” My throat tightens. “But he sounded so alone.”
“You love him.”
I stare at her.
I never actually said it out loud, not even to myself. But hearing it now doesn't surprise me. If anything, it explains too much.
My eyes burn suddenly. “That seems inconvenient.”
Penny laughs under her breath and squeezes my hand. “Unfortunately, love usually is.”
I look down at my stomach instinctively. At the babies he still doesn’t know about. Then back toward my phone.
Toward the voicemail waiting there.
Toward the sound of Clay trying and failing to convince himself he’s fine.
“I can’t stay here wondering if he’s okay,” I whisper.
Penny studies me for a long moment.
Then she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m packing snacks because none of you people make responsible choices under emotional distress.”
“That’s fair.”
“It’s deeply fair.”
Since hearing the voicemail, it's the first time the pressure in my chest has eased at all.
We’re going to him.
And beneath all the fear, exhaustion, and terrible decision-making, I know I'm making the only choice I can live with.