Page 153 of Josephine and Clay

“At least you’re aware.”

His eyes flash. “Don’t start.”

I stiffen. Control sliding into place because emotion is too dangerous. “I haven’t started anything.”

“You came here.”

“I was invited.”

“By my family.”

“Yes. Because they’ve been kind to me.”

His jaw works. “They’re real good at that.”

“At what?”

“Pulling people in. Making this place look solid.”

I frown. “It's something solid.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know what kindness looks like.”

He looks away. I think I’ve reached him. Then he says, quieter and meaner somehow, “You don’t know anything about this family.”

The room goes very still.

I should respond calmly. I should remember he's in pain. I should remember injured animals bite when cornered, and men are apparently no different.

But I'm tired.

I'm pregnant, scared, and tired of trying to interpret every shift in him like weather.

“You’re right,” I snap. “I don’t. But I know they care about you.”

His laugh is sharp. “Yeah? That’s what they told you at dinner?”

“They didn’t need to.”

He pushes a hand through his hair. “Great. So what is this? You here to tell me to be grateful?”

“No.”

“To tell me I’m lucky?”

“No.”

“To fix me?”

“I'm not trying to fix you, Clay.”

“Then what do you want?”

The question cracks through the room.

I freeze.