Page 272 of Josephine and Clay

Josie says they both get that from me.

She’s probably right.

I sit beside her bed with our son in my arms and feel my entire life settle into place.

Josie looks over at me, exhausted beyond words and still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“What?” she whispers.

“Henry James McCoy,” I say softly.

Josie smiles. “Theodore Clay McCoy.”

My eyes lift.

We’d debated that middle name.

I said no at least fifteen times.

Josie ignored me every single time.

“I still think that’s too much pressure for the kid,” I say.

“He’ll survive.”

“He might inherit my bad decision-making.”

“He has me too.”

“That’s his saving grace.”

Her smile trembles.

My jacket hangs over the chair near the door.

The ring is in the pocket.

It’s been there for weeks. Through dinners, doctor appointments, late-night drives.

I meant to plan a proper proposal.

Maybe at the house or at the lake. Maybe somewhere with candles and flowers and no hospital socks involved.

But watching Josie now, with Theodore asleep against her and Henry warm in my arms, I realize I don’t want perfect. I want real.

And nothing in my life has ever been more real than this.

Carefully, I stand.

Josie notices immediately. “What are you doing?”

I shift Henry against my chest and reach into my jacket pocket with my free hand.

The small box feels impossibly heavy.

Josie’s eyes widen. “Clay.”

I come back to the bed and sit on the edge carefully, close enough that Henry’s blanket brushes Theodore’s.