Page 243 of Josephine and Clay

“Good.” His smile loses some of its teasing. “I wanted you to.”

The sincerity hangs there long enough that neither of us rushes to cover it with a joke.

For a while, we look over the menu. Clay recommends nearly every item on the menu, which turns out to be spectacularly unhelpful. Then he admits he mostly used to come here after rodeos because the portions were huge and nobody judged him for ordering two dinners. I choose chicken with mashed potatoes because it sounds safe, comforting, and unlikely to anger the twins. Clay orders steak and, after a thoughtful pause, an extra side of fries “for the table,” though we both know exactly who they’re for.

When Bonnie leaves with our order, Clay rests his forearms on the table.

“So,” he says, “I’ve been thinking.”

“That phrase has caused concern before.”

“I deserve that.”

“Yes.”

His grin flickers, but he doesn’t retreat into joking the way he might have once. “I mean it. About the babies.”

My hands still around my water glass. “I figured.”

“I don’t know much,” he says. “Actually, that’s generous. I know almost nothing. But I’ve been asking Boone, Dallas, and Nash questions.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“Boone told me fatherhood is mostly apologizing and trying again.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“Dallas told me responsibility isn’t a punishment. And Nash said it’s all about love.”

He smiles, then reaches for his water. “After all that expert counsel, I realized I should probably ask the person carrying them what she needs.”

My smile eases as I look down at the table.

For most of this pregnancy, the question has been what I need to do. What I need to plan. What I need to handle. Hearing Clay ask what I need leaves me staring at the tabletop longer than necessary.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit.

“That’s allowed.”

“I’m used to having answers.”

“I’ve noticed.”

My gaze lifts.

His mouth curves. “You have a list-making face.”

I try not to smile and fail. “That is a ridiculous thing to say.”

“It’s also true.”

Bonnie arrives with our food before I can argue, which is probably for the best. The plates are generous enough that even Clay looks impressed, and for several minutes the conversation pauses while we eat.

The food is better than expected. Or maybe I’m hungrier than I realized.

Clay notices, of course.

“Look at that,” he says. “A full meal.”