Page 166 of Josephine and Clay

“Good idea.”

At eleven fifty-nine, I've washed my hands twice, straightened the appointment cards by the register, and moved the same bottle of disinfectant three inches to the left, then three inches back to the right.

At noon exactly, I send one word.

Okay.

Clay is waiting outside when I step out of the clinic.

He stands near the edge of the sidewalk, hat low, one crutch tucked under his arm, weight carefully shifted off his injured leg. He looks better than he did in his room. Cleaner. More awake. Less like he’s trying to disappear into the floorboards.

Still tired, though.

Still too sharp around the edges.

His eyes find mine immediately. I stop with the clinic door half closed behind me.

Neither of us says anything.

This is the problem with unresolved tension. It takes up physical space. It stands there between two people on a public sidewalk in broad daylight, making even breathing feel like a decision.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

His mouth moves like he wants to smile but thinks better of it. “Thanks for coming out.”

“It’s my lunch break.”

That sounds cold.

I didn't mean for it to sound cold. Or perhaps I did. It’s hard to tell anymore.

Clay nods once, accepting it. “Can we walk?”

I glance at his crutch, then his leg.

He notices. “Slowly.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I think a lot of things I don’t say.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m starting to figure that out.”

There’s a twinge in his voice that makes my chest tighten. Regret, maybe. Or tiredness. Or both.

I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jacket and step beside him. “Where?”

He nods down Main Street. “Just around the block?”

“That’s ambitious for a man who looks like stairs recently offended him.”

A small huff of laughter leaves him. It loosens me before I can stop it.

“Stairs and I aren't on speaking terms,” he says.