Page 127 of Josephine and Clay

JULY 1ST

I wake up in Josie’s bed with a crick in my neck, one leg propped awkwardly on a stack of pillows, with the smell of coffee drifting through the room.

I don’t move at first, partly because my leg protests the idea immediately, and partly because I’m still trying to figure out how the hell this became my life.

Sunlight slips through the curtains, soft and pale, landing across the edge of my cast. Her place is quiet. Neat. Too neat, maybe. Everything has a place. Books stacked straight. Throw blanket folded over the armchair.

I smile before I can stop myself.

Then I hear movement from the kitchen.

The smile fades. Because she’s here. Because last night happened. Because I didn’t leave. And because for once, I didn’t want to.

I rise to my feet and hobble through the house.

“You’re awake,” Josie says the moment she sees me.

She stands in the kitchen doorway holding a mug in both hands, hair loose around her shoulders, face scrubbed clean, wearing soft gray shorts and an oversized flannel because she’s trying to look practical and accidentally made herself impossible to stop staring at.

“Barely,” I say.

Her eyes drop to my leg. “How bad?”

“It hurts.”

“You should rest it.”

I huff out a laugh. “You and my mom should start a club.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

She crosses the room and sets the mug on the table in front of me. “Coffee. Black.”

I look at it. “You remembered?”

Her expression shifts; she didn’t mean to reveal that. “It’s not difficult.”

“No?”

“You texted it once.”

I grin into the mug because she clearly doesn’t realize how much that tiny detail gets to me. “That means you remembered.”

She gives me a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Drink your coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Still giving orders.”

Her mouth twitches. There it is. That tiny crack in the wall she keeps between herself and everyone else. I enjoy it too much.

I reach for the mug, careful not to jostle my leg. “You sleep?”

“A little.”