Page 148 of Josephine and Clay

Small ones.

On the bed behind me, the contents of my purse are arranged in neat rows because I emptied it out to make sure I had everything I might need. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Tissues. Hand sanitizer. Mints. Antacid. Emergency granola bar. Tiny sewing kit. Prenatal vitamins I absolutely don't need to bring to dinner, but there they are.

Also my little emergency kit, because I don’t leave home without it.

That's normal.

Probably.

I put everything back into my purse in the correct order, then take it all out again because my phone should be easier to reach.

This is how I know I'm nervous. I mean, I’m going to dinner. A friendly dinner. At Tessa’s house. With Rose and Faith. Women who happen to be married to Clay McCoy’s brothers.

I press a hand lightly to my stomach.

It's still too early for there to be much there. Not really. Nothing obvious beneath my clothes. But I know. My body knows. Two tiny lives tucked inside me, changing everything while the rest of the world keeps going like nothing has happened.

“Okay,” I whisper. “We can do this.”

The drive to the McCoy ranch isn't long enough.

That’s the problem with small towns. Nothing gives you adequate time to prepare. One minute you're trying to convince yourself you're a sensible adult woman who can handle a dinner invitation, and the next, you're turning down a gravel drive toward a family ranch where every fence post appears to have been standing longer than your entire life.

The McCoy property stretches wide under the evening sky, golden and dust-soft, with cattle in the distance and a line of cottonwoods shifting in the breeze. It looks like the kind of place people belong to for generations.

I park near a smaller house tucked a little away from the main one, hands tight around the steering wheel.

Tessa steps onto the porch before I can talk myself into reversing all the way back to town.

She waves.

I wave back.

“Josephine!” she calls warmly.

I get out of the car and immediately regret not bringing something. Flowers, wine, a casserole. Do people still bring casseroles? I should've asked Penny. Penny would know. Penny knows things like this because Penny can talk to anyone without looking like she’s being held hostage by her own nervous system.

“Hi,” I say, walking up the porch steps. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything.”

Tessa’s smile softens. “You brought yourself. That counts.”

“That sounds generous but logistically unhelpful.”

She laughs, and the sound eases my chest by half an inch. “Come in.”

Inside, her house smells like roasted chicken, butter, and baby lotion. It’s warm and lived in without being messy, which I immediately admire and resent in equal measure. There are baby things tucked into corners. A folded blanket over the arm of the couch. A burp cloth near a stack of mail. Tiny socks on the coffee table.

I stare at them for half a second too long.

Tessa notices.

She doesn’t point it out.

Instead, she touches my arm gently. “Rose and Faith are in the kitchen. Hailey’s sleeping, for now, which means we have somewhere between four minutes and three hours. Babies like to keep expectations realistic.”

“That seems considerate of them.”

“Oh, very.”