Page 105 of Josephine and Clay

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

I hate that.

I hate the way something inside me recoils from my own certainty, as though part of me is already tired of standing alone before the real hard part has even begun.

But depending on people means giving them the power to leave gaps you have to crawl out of later. I have crawled out of enough gaps. I’m very good at it. Too good, probably.

I close the notebook.

Decision made.

I will tell Clay eventually, because he deserves to know. But telling him isn't the same thing as needing him. And whatever happens when he finds out, whatever he chooses, whatever he can or cannot offer, I need to know I can do this without him.

That feels right, sensible, safe.

So I get up, rinse my mug, wipe down the counter, reorganize the crackers in the cabinet, then immediately realize I’m cleaning because I’m anxious.

I stop with one hand still on the cabinet door. “Ridiculous.”

Then I straighten the tea boxes anyway.

Work is blessedly busy.

The kind of busy that eats whole hours without asking permission.

A golden retriever with an ear infection. A barn cat with an abscess. Mrs. Sanderson’s cat, Mr. Biscuits, who doesn't appear emotionally unsupported so much as morally opposed to veterinary medicine. A sheepdog with allergies. A horse consult Dr. Harris takes over because I'm still technically supposed to avoid “overdoing it,” a phrase he has taken up using with the smug authority of a man who knows I hate it.

“You’re frowning at that chart,” he says sometime after lunch.

“I’m reading.”

“You frown when you read now?”

“I frown when the handwriting is this bad.”

“That’s my handwriting.”

“I’m aware.”

He leans a shoulder against the doorway of the exam room, arms folded, mouth trying not to smile. Ever since I told him about the pregnancy, he's developed the infuriating habit of checking on me every few hours.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

His brows lift. I set the chart down.

“I'm nauseous, tired, mildly irritable, and currently resisting the urge to reorganize your entire vaccine fridge by expiration date.”

“That sounds more accurate.”

“Happy?”

“Thrilled.”

I roll my eyes and reach for a disinfectant wipe.

He watches me, and his expression softens in that quietly perceptive way of his that makes me feel seen when I’d prefer very much not to be.