Page 194 of Josephine and Clay

This is a terrible idea.

I know it.

I spent half the morning in a hospital bed. Dr. Harris would probably chain me to a chair if he found out I was considering an eight-hour drive right after being discharged. Between him and Penny, I've heard enough lectures about rest, hydration, and avoiding stress to last a lifetime.

The babies are okay. That's what matters.

I should stay home, putting my feet up, and focusing on them instead of a cowboy in another state.

Yet the thought of staying here makes my chest ache.

Clay doesn't even know.

He has no idea there are twins growing inside me. No idea he's already a father. Every day I keep that secret feels harder than the day before, and hearing that voicemail only makes it worse.

I picture him alone in that motel room, hurting, drinking when he shouldn't be, carrying around whatever's been eating at him for weeks. If Boone finds him sprawled across a bed nursing a hangover, I'll feel ridiculous for worrying this much.

But if he doesn't...

The thought turns my stomach.

Maybe that's why I need to go.

Part of me wants to see with my own eyes that he's okay. Another part knows I can't keep putting off this conversation forever. He deserves the truth, even if I'm terrified of what happens after I tell him.

I draw in a breath and look back at Penny while answering Tessa.

"I'm sure," I say.

The words come easy.

Tessa doesn't answer right away. “Okay.”

Penny stares at me as I lower the phone.

“You’re aware,” she says carefully, “that this is objectively insane behavior.”

“Probably.”

“You should be resting.”

“I know.”

“You were just discharged this morning.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want to road trip across state lines for a cowboy who leaves devastating voicemails instead of attending therapy.”

I rub both hands over my face. “When you say it out loud, it does sound concerning.”

“It sounds clinically unwell.”

Despite herself, Penny’s expression softens because she can see it on my face now.

This isn't impulse. It's the fear that something terrible could happen before anyone reaches him.

“What if something happens to him?” I ask quietly.