Page 167 of Josephine and Clay

We start walking.

Slowly.

Painfully slowly, though I don't point that out. Clay’s jaw tightens every few steps, and once, near Buttercup Bakery, his fingers flex hard around the crutch handle. But he keeps moving like stopping would be worse.

I understand that, at least. Sometimes continuing is easier than admitting you need to pause. “So,” I say, because silence is going to make me organize the nearest storefront display. “You wanted to see me.”

“I did.”

He exhales, then stops near the shaded side of the feed store. Not because he needs to rest, I’m sure. Merely because the building has presented itself as a convenient location for emotional difficulty.

He looks down at his boots. “I’m sorry.”

The words are simple. Too simple, maybe. But his voice isn't.

I look at him carefully. “For what?”

His gaze lifts.

There’s no charm in it now. No practiced grin or quick deflection. Just Clay, looking like he’d rather face another bull than hold eye contact through an apology.

“For how I acted when you came by the house,” he says. “For what I said. For making you feel like caring was something you did wrong.”

My throat tightens.

I wasn't prepared for a truth bomb.

That’s foolish, because an apology should be honest. That's one of its primary functions. Still, I expected vaguer, safer. I was in a bad mood. I didn’t mean it. Sorry if you were upset.

Not this.

I fold my arms, mostly to keep from touching my stomach. “You did make it feel that way.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t deserve it.”

“No.” His jaw works. “You didn’t.”

The anger I've carefully maintained for six days shifts uncomfortably but doesn't disappear.

I prefer clean emotions. They’re easier to file. This one has too many edges.

“Why?” I ask.

He looks away, toward the street. “Because I’m an ass.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“No.” His mouth twists. “But it’s true.”

“Clay.”

He exhales through his nose, long and rough. “I don’t like people seeing me like that.”

“Injured?”

“Weak.”