Page 175 of Josephine and Clay

Maybe I would’ve stayed and resented it later. Maybe I would’ve loved her for asking. Maybe I would’ve run anyway.

That uncertainty is the part eating me alive.

I don’t know what kind of man I am when someone asks me to be more than the easy version.

I only know what I’m good at. Leaving.

I bend back over the letter.

I’m going back to the circuit. Not riding yet. Don’t worry, I’m not that stupid.

A quiet laugh leaves me.

Lie.

I cross out stupid, then write reckless over it.

Better.

I need to be around it again. I need to remember who I am when I’m not sitting in this house, a stranger in my own skin.

I’m sorry for taking off this way. But if I say goodbye, you’ll look at me like you know something I don’t, and Boone will get mad, and Dallas will get quiet, and Nash will try to make a joke that makes me want to punch a wall.

That part's too honest.

I leave it.

Tell them I’ll call when I’m settled.

Another lie, maybe.

I stare at the bottom of the page.

Love, Clay

I write it before I can think too hard. Then I fold the paper and slide it into the envelope with the bank documents, and write Mom across the front. I set it on the bed, then I finish packing.

There isn’t much to take. My life fits too easily into bags. That used to make me proud. No roots weighing me down. No clutter. No strings attached anywhere.

Tonight it just feels empty.

I zip the duffel and sit, breathing through the pain in my leg. The brace is stiff. Sweat gathers under the straps. The doctor would skin me alive if he knew I was planning to sit in a truck for hours.

Good thing he doesn’t.

My crutches lean against the wall.

I hate them. I hate needing them. I hate that I can’t just sling the duffel over my shoulder and walk out a man who still owns his body.

Instead, it takes strategy.

Bag first. Crutch. Weight shift. Don’t twist. Don’t swear too loud.

I manage the hallway slow, every step careful and quiet. The house feels different at night. Bigger somehow. More honest. All the daytime noise stripped away until only the bones remain.

I pass Boone’s old room, now mostly used when his kids crash here.

Door closed.