Page 185 of Josephine and Clay

Nothing changed.

Except me, apparently.

I stare at the ceiling a little longer after that thought lands.

I shift wrong, and pain shoots through my knee hard enough to make me swear under my breath.

“Hell.”

The room tilts slightly afterward.

That’s either exhaustion or the whiskey and medication teaming up to humble me personally.

Could go either way.

I close my eyes for a minute.

Bad move.

Josie appears immediately, behind the clinic counter with that focused crease between her brows while she studies paperwork. Hair escaping her bun, sleeves shoved up, looking calm enough to fool most people into thinking she isn’t carrying five emotions at once.

My chest tightens before I can stop it.

I open my eyes again and stare at the stained ceiling.

“Fantastic.”

I came back out here because I thought distance would settle me down. Thought the circuit would remind me who I was before Buckhorn got under my skin again.

Instead, every day lands a little sideways. I spend mornings limping through rehab exercises, afternoons pretending I’m fine around riders who smell weakness like blood in water, and nights lying awake thinking about a woman who told me to take care of myself right before I left her standing outside a clinic door.

Not exactly thriving.

I grab the bottle again.

Empty.

I stare into it anyway, hopeful in the pathetic way tired people get around one in the morning.

Then I toss it toward the trash can beside the desk.

The bottle hits the rim, bounces off, and rolls beneath the chair.

“Strong finish, McCoy.”

My phone lights up beside me.

No messages.

I knew there wouldn’t be any. Didn’t stop me from checking.

I unlock it anyway and scroll mindlessly. Sponsors and missed calls, then a text from Dallas asking if I've actually been doing physical therapy or merely lying creatively about it.

Then Josie’s name.

My thumb hovers there.

Don’t.