Page 113 of Josephine and Clay

“You're prepared.”

“I need to be able to do this alone.”

Penny doesn’t answer right away. When I look back at her, her face is gentler than I can bear.

“What?” I ask.

“I think you can,” she says. “I just don’t think you should have to.”

My throat tightens.

That's exactly the sort of sentence that should be banned in public places.

Before I can respond, Jessie Alvarez appears with two plates stacked with chili and cornbread. “Penny Tucker, if you don’t come help me convince Mayor Ruth that the band should play something faster, I’m going to start a rebellion.”

Penny glances at me.

I wave her off. “Go.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know. That’s never been the concern.”

I give her a look.

She kisses the air beside my cheek dramatically and lets Jessie drag her toward the cluster near the band.

For the first time all evening, I’m alone.

Not completely. Buckhorn surrounds me on all sides, bright and loud and alive. But Penny’s absence leaves space for my thoughts to creep back in.

I move toward the edge of the barn, near a post wrapped with string lights, and stand where I can watch without being watched too closely.

A little girl runs past with a cookie in each hand. Earl Haskins announces something no one listens to. Clara scolds a man for taking a second slice of pie before everyone’s had firsts. Boone lifts Wyatt easily when he trips over his own boots, steadying him with one hand. Rose says something that makes Boone smile down at her like the entire room faded away.

My hand settles briefly over my stomach before I catch myself and let it fall again.

I can’t do this.

I can’t stand here building imaginary futures out of fiddle music and string lights and one man who still has no idea he’s going to be a father.

The thought steals my breath.

I see a future rooted in a place I only meant to live in quietly. I see children who belong to more than just me. I see family tables, ranch dust, porch steps, birthdays, holidays, people who show up whether invited or not.

And then I see Clay leaving again. Truck taillights. Silence. A phone with no answer.

And then fear slips in anyway. Because I don’t know what Clay wants. I only know that we insisted on casual because he’s not usually in town.

The vision collapses.

No.

This is why control matters. This is why I cannot build anything on maybes and almosts and the way a man looks at me when the rest of the world goes quiet.

I take another sip of lemonade, even though it's gone warm.