Page 61 of Josephine and Clay

“I’ve been informed.”

She softens immediately, stepping closer. “What happened?”

“I felt unwell. Dr. Harris escalated.”

“Good boss.”

Despite everything, a faint smile tugs at my mouth.

She sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. “Did they say anything yet?”

“They’re running tests.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Tests are good. Tests mean answers.”

“Yes.” I swallow hard. “I think so.”

Eventually, they call for me again, and this time Penny bounds along beside me. I don’t know whether to be grateful for the support or nervous that she’s about to hear everything, but I’m sure as hell not about to send her away.

“We’ve got your initial results back,” the nurse tells me before I even hit the chair. “And we need to run a few more tests.”

My blood runs cold. I grip the chair hard. “Why?”

A small pause. “Because your pregnancy test came back positive, and your hormone levels are higher than we’d expect at this stage, so we want to take a closer look.”

Fuck.

Pregnant.

The room doesn’t spin; nothing dramatic happens. Instead, everything seems to narrow slightly, as if the world has pulled inward and sharpened around that single point.

“That…” I say slowly. “Is…”

Penny’s hand closes around mine, tighter than before. “Shit, Josie.”

I don’t look at her, because if I do, this becomes more than I’m currently prepared to handle.

She explains the next steps: blood work, follow-ups, and an ultrasound to confirm viability.

This is way out of my control.

I nod where appropriate, ask a question or two, process information the way I always do. But underneath that there’s an instability I don’t like the sensation of. This is way out of my control.

The ultrasound room is dimmer than the rest of the hospital; the overhead lights are softer, the air is cooler, and everything is arranged in a way that feels purposeful and contained. It should be calming. But the quiet leaves too much space for thought, and I’m not entirely certain I want that right now.

I move to the edge of the bed, pausing when the technician turns toward me.

“At this stage, we’ll get a clearer image with a transvaginal scan,” she explains gently. “It’s standard this early.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

The instructions are simple, clinical, delivered in the same calm tone I use with my own clients. I follow them without comment, focusing on each step as a task to complete rather than something to feel. There's a quiet discomfort in the loss of control, in the awareness of being examined rather than the one doing the examining, but I keep my expression calm, my breathing even.

Penny stays close, her hand finding mine again as I settle back. “I’m right here.”

“I know.”

The room settles into a working quiet as the technician prepares the equipment, movements efficient and practiced. I watch the ceiling, then turn my head toward the screen, choosing to focus on what I can understand.