Page 240 of Josephine and Clay

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?”

His expression shifts, guilty enough that I laugh. “She may have mentioned women enjoy gestures.”

“Gestures?”

“Her word. I was going to bring snacks, but she said that sounded as if I was luring a raccoon.”

“She has a point.”

“I would’ve brought good snacks.”