Page 200 of Josephine and Clay

“Clay—”

Another knock hits the motel door.

Rose startles slightly.

Boone’s brow furrows. “Already?”

The knocking comes again.

Softer this time.

My headache pulses harder as I limp toward the door. Every nerve in my body already feels scraped raw, and the last thing I need right now is some rodeo guy checking whether I’m still alive enough to drink tonight.

I yank the door open.

And stop breathing.

Josie stands there.

Her dark hair is pulled back loosely, oversized sweatshirt sleeves covering half her hands, tired brown eyes locked straight onto mine.

Nothing in my brain works properly.

“What the hell,” I say hoarsely.

Her gaze sweeps over my face carefully. Taking inventory. Concern tightens across her expression so fast it almost hurts to look at.

And suddenly every terrible decision from the last ten days crashes into me all at once.

“What are you doing here?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Josephine

AUGUST 13TH

The motel hallway smells faintly of cigarette smoke and burnt coffee.

Neither seems particularly suited to a conversation that might rearrange both of our lives.

Clay stares at me from the doorway like he still hasn’t fully decided whether I’m real or a hallucination brought on by whiskey and self-destruction. His dark hair sticks up in every direction, exhaustion carved deep beneath his eyes. He looks rough in a way that goes beyond the hangover, his skin washed out and the hollows beneath his eyes deeper than I remember.

Behind me, Boone says quietly, “We’re gonna go grab food.”

Rose immediately catches on. “There’s a diner down the road.”

Clay blinks slowly. “You drove eight hours for diner food?”

“For you,” Boone says flatly. “Unfortunately.”

Rose squeezes my arm gently as she passes me. “Text if you need anything.”

Need anything.

As though there's a version of this conversation that doesn't leave at least one of us emotionally wrecked afterward.

The motel door clicks shut behind them, and the room suddenly feels smaller.