Page 188 of Joker

Not because anyone says no. That would almost be easier.

No one forbids it. No one makes a scene. No one tells me I’m not allowed to step foot off the property like I’m a child asking for too much freedom.

If anything, that almost makes it worse.

Because after the fight with Joker and the ugly, aching aftermath of it, everybody has adjusted in this careful, measured way that makes me feel like I’m made of glass they’re trying not to crack any further.

No one is crowding me. No one is hovering so obviously that my body starts reacting before my mind can keep up.

They’re still watching. Still protecting. Still tightening things where they need to. But they’re trying to let me breathe while they do it. And somehow that makes the guilt sit even heavier in my chest.

Because Joker didn’t deserve what I said. He didn’t deserve the way my fear cut across him like a blade I couldn’t call back once I threw it.

He definitely didn’t deserve the way he looked at me after. That hurt, quiet, stripped-bare look has been living under my skin ever since.

And now here I am, lying in bed with Lexi sprawled sideways across the blankets and Bunny jammed under her arm, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the fact that I haven’t slept in his room in two nights.

Trying not to think about the fact that he hasn’t pushed.

Hasn’t cornered me. Hasn’t demanded we fix it on his timeline. Hasn’t forced his way back in because his pride was bruised and he wanted reassurance more than I needed space.

He just…stepped back.

And somehow that hurts worse than if he’d gotten angry.

Lexi rolls toward me with a sleepy little hum, warm and heavy and soft in the way only little kids can be before the world fully gets its claws into them.

I smooth her hair back from her face and stare at her for a long second.

She needs shorts. A couple lighter shirts. Maybe sandals that fit better because she’s somehow already halfway grown out of the pair Mac dug out of the women’s room for her last week.

Normal things. Tiny things. Ordinary kid things.

And after the last forty-eight hours of fear and guilt and tension hanging over everything like smoke, the idea of doing something as stupidly simple as buying my daughter summer clothes feels like oxygen.

That’s probably why I say yes when Mac offers. Probably why I ignore the instinctive unease that flickers low in my stomach when she mentions running to the little shopping center twenty minutes outside town where the kids’ consignment shop is.

Probably why I don’t listen closely enough to the voice in my head reminding me thatnormalis exactly what danger counts on.

“It’ll be quick,” Mac says, leaning against the kitchen counter while I pour Lexi juice and she drinks coffee like it’s medically necessary. “In and out. We’ve got two prospects riding with us, and Logan already cleared it with your grumpy boyfriend.”

My hand stills on the juice carton.

Then I look at her. “My what?”

Mac’s mouth twitches. “You heard me.”

I should correct her.

Should point out that Joker and I are in a weird, painful, unresolved place where I’m not entirely sure if I’m sleeping in his bed again tonight or next week or ever if I’ve managed to ruin this badly enough.

Instead, my chest just squeezes in that awful, traitorous way it always does when anyone says anything that sounds even remotely likemineandhisin the same sentence.

“He’s not grumpy,” I mutter.

Mac laughs straight into her mug. “Oh, honey.”

That’s all she says. That somehow says way too much.