Page 135 of Josephine and Clay

Almost.

Almost is becoming a very dangerous word.

I write follow-up instructions for Mrs. Wilcox’s dog, smile in the appropriate places, and make it all the way through the appointment without crying or fainting, which I decide counts as a triumph.

A low, suspicious triumph, but still.

When the door closes behind her, I turn to clean the exam table and forget what I’m holding.

A bottle of disinfectant. A pen. The thermometer. Again.

“Josephine?”

I jolt hard enough that the pen clatters onto the floor.

Dr. Harris stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his expression calm in a way that immediately makes me nervous.

“Sorry,” I say too quickly. “I was just cleaning.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m behind on charting, but I’ll catch up during lunch.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. We have the Brennan appointment at eleven, then vaccinations at eleven thirty, and the Johnson calf check this afternoon if you still want me to⁠—”

“Josephine.”

I stop. He steps inside and closes the exam room door.

My stomach sinks. “Is something wrong?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you.”

“No.”

His eyebrows lift just slightly.

I set the disinfectant bottle down. “I’m tired. Pregnancy does that. Apparently.” The first tear falls before I can stop it. Then another. There’s no controlling it into something manageable.

I’m crying at work. In an exam room.

Beside a table I have already cleaned twice.

“Oh,” I whisper, horrified. “No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Josephine.” Dr. Harris stays calm.

“I don’t do this.”

“I know.”

“I’m not…” I press both hands over my face. “I’m not someone who does this.”

“You’re someone who’s overwhelmed.”

“I don’t have time to be overwhelmed.”