Page 37 of Josephine and Clay

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s worse. You look like a man distracted by nothing.”

I drain the rest of my whiskey. “Y’all got hit in the head too many times.”

“Maybe,” Mason says. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re standing here like you’d rather be somewhere else.”

I open my mouth to tell him I wouldn’t, but the words don’t come as quick as they should.

Because the truth is I don’t want somewhere else exactly.

I want quieter, my phone, that strange sharp satisfaction of watching a message from Josie appear on the screen and knowing I got under her skin enough for her to answer.

That's new… and a little embarrassing.

“Jeez,” Brandon says, reading my face too easily. “He really does have a girl.”

“I don't have a girl.”

He grins. “Then text your no girl and get it over with so you can stop acting like somebody’s grounded you.”

I bark out a laugh despite myself. “You’re an asshole.”

“Maybe. But am I wrong?”

I hesitate.

The grin he gives me when he catches it is immediate and merciless. “Oh, wow.”

“Relax,” I mutter. “It’s just texting.”

“Just texting,” Mason repeats with mock solemnity. “Our boy is down bad.”

I shove him lightly, enough to make him stumble. “Say that again, and I’ll put you through a wall.”

He only laughs harder.

The night keeps rolling around us. Music gets louder. More drinks appear. A brunette tries her luck with me, and I manage a smile, maybe even a passable conversation, but my heart isn’t in it, and that’s obvious enough that she peels off after a few minutes too.

I can feel the guys watching me with the kind of delight men reserve for seeing their friend brought low by something as ordinary as a woman.

Traitors.

By midnight I’ve had enough of being entertainment.

“I’m out,” I say, dropping cash on the bar.

Brandon looks offended. “Already?”

“You say that every time, and every time I’m right to leave.”

He tilts his head. “You going back to the motel to text?”

I hold his stare for a beat, then grin. “Maybe.”

The noise he makes is somewhere between triumph and disgust.

“Hopeless,” Mason says.