Page 221 of Josephine and Clay

Then I become aware of the warmth beside me.

Clay.

His arm rests heavily across my waist, his chest pressed against my back, each breath stirring the hair at my neck.

I lie still.

Yesterday comes back in pieces. The drive home, the conversation that changed everything, the way he'd looked at the ultrasound picture as though it was the most important thing he'd ever seen.

The way he'd chosen us.

A knot forms in my throat before I can stop it.

For weeks, I'd prepared myself for every possible outcome. I'd braced for anger, prepared for shock, and even considered the possibility that he'd feel nothing at all.

None of this had made it into those late-night disaster scenarios I'd rehearsed. Clay talking about the babies. Clay looking relieved. Clay acting as though coming home had become the easiest decision in the world.

I feel bad. I know he was in a bad place every time I tried to tell him, but that doesn’t ease the guilt at all.

We still have a lot of work to do.

Carefully, I turn my head.

Clay's still asleep.

The hard lines he usually carries are gone, softened by exhaustion. His dark hair has fallen across his forehead, and one hand is curled loosely against the mattress. The bruise beneath his jaw is fading now, leaving only a faint shadow behind.

He looks younger this way, stripped of the constant tension he wears around everyone else.

My chest tightens unexpectedly.

I should get up.

The clinic will be busy, and if I stay here much longer, somebody in this house is bound to see me sneaking out of Clay's room looking guilty.

That thought alone is enough to send a fresh wave of embarrassment through me.

The challenge, unfortunately, is escaping.

Slowly, I reach for his wrist and begin lifting his arm.

Clay immediately pulls me closer. His grip loosens again a few seconds later, though not by much. I wait until his breathing settles before trying a second time.

This attempt goes better.

Bit by bit, I slide free and ease toward the edge of the mattress.

A floorboard creaks beneath my foot.

I freeze.

Clay shifts onto his back with a low murmur and drags a hand across his face.

My heart pounds so hard I'm certain it should wake him.

Instead, he settles deeper into the pillow.

Relief washes through me.