Page 149 of Josephine and Clay

The kitchen is bright, full of the low hum of women already comfortable with one another. Rose is at the counter slicing bread. Faith is stirring something on the stove while holding a glass of tea in her other hand, because apparently motherhood gives you extra limbs or simply removes fear.

Rose looks over first. “Josephine, hi.”

“Hi.”

Faith grins at me. “You made it.”

“I did.” I set my purse carefully on the nearest chair. “I only considered fleeing twice.”

“Only twice?” Faith says. “That’s basically enthusiasm.”

“I’m growing as a person.”

Rose laughs softly and motions me in. “Sit. Or help. Whichever makes you less uncomfortable.”

That's possibly the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Helping,” I say immediately.

Tessa points to a salad bowl. “You can toss that if you want.”

Wonderful. A task. A clear task. I can handle lettuce.

I wash my hands, then take my place at the counter and focus intensely on distributing cherry tomatoes evenly, because if my life is unstable, at least this salad won't be.

For a while, dinner preparation fills the space where awkwardness might have lived. Rose asks about the clinic. Faith tells a story about Brooklyn throwing mashed carrots at Dallas with startling accuracy. Tessa explains that Nash tried to change Hailey’s diaper yesterday and ended up using three wipes, two diapers, and one clean shirt, none successfully.

I laugh before I can stop myself.

I'm used to quiet meals. Fast ones. Standing over my kitchen counter, scrolling through patient notes, eating toast because cooking for one person often feels more theoretical than practical.

Here, everything is noise and warmth and overlapping sentences.

It should overwhelm me.

It does, a little.

But not badly.

When we sit down to eat, Rose makes sure I have water before I ask. Faith nudges a basket of rolls toward me. Tessa watches me with the careful softness of someone who knows there's a fragile topic waiting on the table even if no one has touched it yet.

We make it through chicken, potatoes, and half the salad before Faith sets down her fork carefully. “So how bad is it?”

I blink. “How bad is what?”

“You and Clay.”

Heat crawls into my face immediately. “That’s a very direct question.”

“You’ve met the McCoys,” Faith says dryly. “Subtlety isn’t really a family strength.”

Rose shoots her a look, but there’s sympathy behind it.

I stare down at my plate for a second too long. “I don’t know what we are.”

The words come out quieter than I intend.

Tessa watches me carefully but says nothing.