Page 120 of Josephine and Clay

“It was pity.”

“Liar.”

Getting upright is a production I’d prefer to murder. Josie doesn’t help unless she has to, which means I only hate it half as much. I hook one crutch under my arm and offer her my other hand.

My chest does a stupid skip as she takes it.

We make it about three steps onto the edge of the dance floor before I realize this is, in fact, a terrible idea.

The song is slower now, thank goodness, but even swaying is complicated when one leg is decorative.

Josie puts one hand lightly on my shoulder. “This is ridiculous.”

“Most good things are.”

“You’re leaning on me.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You strong enough to handle it, Doc?”

Her eyes sharpen. “Don’t test me.”

A laugh pulls out of me, and I shift wrong. Pain flashes hot up my leg.

She catches it instantly. Her hand tightens on my shoulder. “Stop.”

“I’m fine.”

“Clay.”

“I said⁠—”

“You’re allowed to stop before you make it worse.”

The words land harder than they should. Because no one says that to me. Not in that way.

I breathe through my teeth, then nod once.

We don’t leave the floor. We just stop trying to dance properly.

I keep one crutch grounded while she leaves her hand on my shoulder, our other hands still linked between us. We sway in a slow, uneven circle, never quite finding the rhythm. It's awkward and more than a little embarrassing, but neither of us seems willing to let go.

Josie glances down. “We’re very bad at this.”

“We’re excellent.”

“We are moving approximately two inches.”

“Efficiency.”

She chuckles. “You nearly stepped on my foot.”

“Romance.”

“That’s not what romance is.”