Page 264 of Josephine and Clay

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.