Page 92 of Josephine and Clay

“Yeah.”

“And?”

She hesitates. And I hate that.

“I’ve been busy,” she says.

“Right,” I say, because what else is there to say to that?

Busy.

Sure.

Makes sense.

People get busy. People move on. People don’t sit around waiting for some guy who disappeared for a week and then came back with a broken leg and a half-assed apology.

“Look,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t… I didn’t just…”

I stop, because I don’t actually know how to explain this. I don’t know how to explain the wreck, the hospital, the pain, the way everything went sideways all at once. I don’t know how to explain why texting her felt too much when I could barely keep my own head straight. I don’t know how to say any of it without basically making excuses.

She watches me and waits, and I think maybe I should say it anyway. Just… tell her.

Then the words don’t come.

Because I’m standing here on crutches, in the middle of the ranch I’ve spent half my life running from, trying to explain myself to a woman who’s already decided she doesn’t need the explanation.

“I should go,” she says instead.

“Yeah,” I say.

She picks up her bag. It’s that night all over again. Temporary, simple, and ending before it ever had the chance to be anything else.

Except it doesn’t feel simple anymore.

She pauses when she passes me. “You did okay.”

I huff out a breath. “High praise.”

“I mean it.”

She keeps walking.

Just like that.

Gone.

I don’t do much after that. Or at least, nothing useful.

I limp back to the house, drag myself up the steps, drop onto the porch chair as if I just ran ten miles instead of standing in a pen for five minutes.

Rusty follows me, flopping down at my feet because obviously he’s earned the rest too.

“You’re not even injured.” He pants at me. “Must be nice.” I lean my head back and stare out across the ranch. “Good job, McCoy. Real smooth.”

I replay it in my head. Every second. The way she said my name. The way she looked at my leg. The way she didn’t answer my message. The way she said she was busy.

It shouldn’t matter. We were never anything. One night. A few texts. That’s it. Except…