Page 236 of Josephine and Clay

It passes quickly, but not quickly enough.

Dr. Harris notices from the doorway. “Sit.”

I dry my hands. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask for a character statement. I said sit.”

The firmness in his voice leaves no room for argument, which is annoying because I’d been preparing one. I lower myself onto the stool near the counter while he pulls a bottle of water from the little refrigerator beneath the cabinet.

“I had breakfast,” I tell him before he can ask.

He hands me the water. “What kind?”

“Toast.”

“Plural?”

I pause.

His eyebrows rise.

“One piece,” I admit.

“Josephine.”

“I was running late.”

“You live seven minutes away.”

“Eight if there’s a tractor.”

“There was no tractor.”

I unscrew the cap and take a drink rather than answer, which he seems to interpret correctly.

He sighs, but there’s no sharpness in it. “You’re allowed to need more than sheer willpower and half a piece of bread.”

“It was a whole piece.”

“Thin bread doesn’t count.”

Despite myself, I smile. “That feels medically questionable.”

“I’ve been practicing longer than you’ve been alive. I’m comfortable making bold claims about toast.”

The smile fades into something softer before I can stop it. I look down at the water bottle, turning it slowly between my hands.

“I’m trying,” I say.

His expression shifts. Pity would've made me bristle, but this isn't pity. It's understanding. “I know you are.”

The knot in my throat tightens hard enough that I have to look away.

I take another drink, mostly to give myself time to swallow the sudden tightness in my throat. Dr. Harris waits without filling the silence, which is one of the reasons I trust him. People who rush in with solutions usually leave a mess behind.

After a moment, he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a granola bar.

I stare at it. “Do you keep those on you now?”