Page 71 of Josephine and Clay

“That’s not the same thing either.”

“I’m aware,” I snap.

She doesn’t react to the edge in my tone. That’s one of the reasons she’s still here. She lets it pass, lets me be difficult without escalating it into more.

“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Then we’re going to do something very simple today.”

“I have work.”

“You nearly passed out again at work. Your boss won’t want you in.”

“I didn’t pass out.”

“You still lost the argument with gravity,” she says. “Dr. Harris told me.”

I glare at her. “He didn’t have to⁠—”

“He absolutely did,” she cuts in. “You’re taking the day off.”

“I can’t⁠—”

“You can,” she says firmly. “And you are. We’re going to get breakfast, and you’re going to eat something that isn’t coffee or anxiety, and then we’re going to come back here and figure out next steps.”

I open my mouth to refuse, then my stomach rolls again.

Penny arches a brow.

“Fine,” I mutter.

“Good.”

The Rusty Mug smells like coffee, cinnamon, and a faintly floral scent that I’ve never been able to identify.

It’s annoyingly comforting.

Penny pushes the door open, and the little bell above it jingles, drawing a few glances from regulars scattered across the tables. Buckhorn doesn’t do anonymity well. You’re always being seen and assessed.

Today, I mind less than usual, or maybe I just don’t have the energy to care.

“There she is,” a bright voice calls.

Laura, the owner.

She stands behind the counter with a pen tucked behind her ear and a grin that’s entirely too knowing for this early in the morning.

“You look like you’ve been through it,” she says as we approach.

“That’s one way to phrase it,” Penny replies before I can.

Laura’s eyes flick to me, softer now. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Penny snorts.

Laura’s mouth twitches. “Uh huh. Booth or table?”

“Booth,” Penny says. “She needs to be contained.”