Page 118 of Josephine and Clay

“Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

The band shifts into something faster. Boots hit the floor in time, couples spinning, laughter rising. A part of me remembers how it feels to move without thinking. To grab a girl by the hand and pull her into the rhythm. To be easy in my body.

My bad leg throbs. It heard the thought and wanted to punish me.

Josie notices. “You should sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“You always bossy with your patients?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not one of your patients.”

“No,” she says, eyes dropping briefly to my cast. “You’re worse. At least animals admit when they’re hurt.”

I should snap back. Instead, I breathe out a laugh. “You calling me stubborn?”

“I’m calling you transparent.”

I glance toward the hay bales along the edge. “Fine. I’ll sit if you sit.”

She wants to argue, but she walks with me anyway. Slow enough that I don’t have to rush. Not so slow that it might as well be pity.

I notice.

I hate that I notice.

We sit on a hay bale under a stretch of string lights.

Neither of us says anything.

The music fills the space. Buckhorn moves around us, bright and busy. My family is somewhere behind me, probably watching. I don’t turn to check.

Josie holds her lemonade with both hands. “Does it hurt?”

“My pride? Constantly.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Your leg.”

“That too.”

“Are you taking the medication properly?”

I shoot her a look. “You always this romantic?”

Her eyes widen a fraction, then narrow. “That wasn’t romantic.”

“Felt intimate.”

“Medical questions aren't intimate.”

“They are when you ask them.”