Page 146 of Josephine and Clay

I’d busted a fence post because I was showing off. Rode too fast. Took a turn too sharp. Spooked the horse. Nearly snapped the gate clean off.

Dad didn’t yell right away. That made it worse. “You ever think before you move, Clay?”

I remember standing there covered in dust and guilt, wishing I had some answer that would make him look less tired.

I never found one.

I step into the office now and hate that I can still hear his voice so clear.

I drop into the chair, awkward and irritated, dragging my leg out in front of me. Pain pulses sharp through the bone, but I ignore it.

The drawers stick when I pull them open. I start from the bottom.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.

Proof, maybe. Proof that I’m wrong, or that I’m not.

I flip through folders with one hand, the other braced against my leg as if I can hold the pain down by force. Sweat slips along my spine. My mouth tastes stale. I should’ve eaten this morning.

Food has been one more thing people ask about. You hungry, Clay? Need lunch, Clay? Can I bring you something, Clay?

Every question might as well be a hand pushing on a bruise.

I pull another folder free.

I lay it on the desk and open it.

Statements. Old ones. Some from accounts I recognize. Ranch accounts. Household accounts. Savings with Dad’s name and Mom’s name.

Then I see it.

A printed form clipped behind a stack of statements. Trust designation. My eyes stick to the page.

Designated beneficiary: Clayton James McCoy.

Established by: Robert Alan McCoy.

Purpose: personal inheritance distribution.

The room suddenly feels too small.

My grip tightens on the paper hard enough to wrinkle it as the answer arrives almost instantly, ugly and immediate.

Because he knew me too well. Or maybe because he never understood me at all.

Hell, maybe those are the same thing.

He saw the wreck coming.

Maybe he saw it before I did.

He watched me tear through life, chasing noise and risk and applause, and thought, That one won’t make it. That one will need help when the rest don’t.

Heat crawls up my neck.

I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling of his office, laughing once under my breath.

No humor in it.