Page 186 of Josephine and Clay

Seriously, don’t.

Calling a woman at one in the morning while drunk and medicated belongs in the same category as wrestling rattlesnakes and starting bar fights in Texas.

Unfortunately, exhaustion has worn down my survival instincts.

I hit call before I can think better of it.

Each ring stretches longer than it should.

Part of me wants her to answer. The smarter part hopes she’s asleep with the phone buried under three blankets where she can’t hear it.

By the fourth ring, my stomach’s twisted itself into something ugly.

Then her voicemail picks up.

“Hi, this is Josephine. Leave a message.”

Her voice slides through me warm and familiar, and suddenly this is catastrophically stupid.

I should hang up.

Instead, I hear myself say, “Uh… hey, Josie.”

I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees while I stare at the carpet.

“I honestly don’t know why I called.” A rough laugh slips out. “That’s not true. I know exactly why I called. I just probably should’ve lost reception first.”

The air conditioner hums behind me.

Outside, somebody hollers near the vending machines.

“I thought coming back out here would fix whatever had gone wrong. Maybe put me back where I was before. I don't know.”

I drag a hand through my hair.

“I kept telling myself I wasn’t running away. But leaving town while your entire life’s falling apart apparently still counts as running, so that’s unfortunate news.”

My voice sounds rough even to me, frayed around the edges from too many sleepless nights.

“This place used to fit better,” I continue. “Now it just wears on me.”

I lean back carefully against the headboard, easing pressure off my leg.

“I don’t fit here the way I used to.”

I almost stop talking altogether. Then the whiskey loosens my mouth again before pride can shut it down.

“You always saw through me.” I rub my jaw. “Drove me insane, by the way. You’d look at me for five seconds and somehow know when I was lying to myself.”

I can practically picture the expression she’d make hearing this too. Arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised, disappointment tucked behind professional restraint.

The thought almost makes me smile.

“I miss you.”

The words slip out soft and immediate.

Real enough to sober me halfway.