Page 184 of Josephine and Clay

“I have foraged,” she announces proudly.

Tessa laughs softly.

Penny hands me the crackers. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re growing two people. Your opinions on hunger are no longer legally binding.”

Tessa opens her tote bag beside the chair. “I brought ginger candies, granola bars, and a blanket because I panicked in my kitchen.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”

“It was either that or a casserole, and I wasn’t emotionally prepared to become somebody’s church aunt overnight.”

Penny points at her approvingly. “See? Excellent instincts.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Clay

AUGUST 12TH

Turns out you can spend years believing a place will save you, then finally get back there and realize you brought the problem with you in the truck.

That’s been the last ten days.

The motel room smells of stale smoke, dusty carpet, and industrial bleach. The air conditioner rattles hard enough to sound distressed, though all it actually accomplishes is pushing warmth around the room. Somewhere outside, country music leaks through thin walls while a couple of guys argue beside the ice machine about whether a stock contractor in Amarillo cheats on gate draws.

I lie flat on my back staring at the ceiling while my leg throbs beneath the brace.

Sleep isn't happening again.

The digital clock beside the bed reads 1:14 a.m. in angry red numbers. I’ve already watched twenty minutes crawl by one miserable minute at a time, which feels excessive even for insomnia.

The whiskey probably isn’t helping.

Neither are the pills.

I might be taking them again, but I don’t think drinking on them is helping.

I reach for the bottle on the nightstand and take another swallow anyway. The liquor burns all the way down, enough to punch through the ache in my leg briefly before the pain settles right back where it started.

Outside, somebody laughs loud enough to echo across the parking lot.

Usually, I love this part.

The noise and motion. The fact that none of it was meant to last. Men limping around arenas pretending they’re indestructible while comparing surgeries over gas station coffee. Dust hanging in the air beneath floodlights. Bucking chutes rattling under your boots.

For years, this life made more sense to me than Buckhorn ever did.

Out here, nobody expected permanence. You rolled into town, rode hard, drank harder, then left before anybody asked questions you didn’t know how to answer.

Back then, it seemed simple.

Only now I’m back, and none of it fits right anymore.

The arenas still smell the same. The announcers still yell too loud. Everybody still slaps your shoulder hard enough to bruise and asks how the leg’s healing before launching into stories about their own injuries.