Julian lowered his hand, but not because he seemed embarrassed.
“Because the music started.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Clara looked toward the dance floor.
Couples turning.
Standing.
Moving.
Her stomach twisted.
She had imagined dancing before.
Of course she had.
As a little girl she sometimes locked her bedroom door, turned music on, and spun her wheelchair in circles until she became dizzy.
At thirteen she watched classmates practice for the spring dance and pretended she thought the entire thing was ridiculous.
At eighteen she attended prom with friends and spent three hours beside a table while everyone told her how beautiful her dress was.
Not once had anyone asked her.
Not sincerely.
A boy in high school once jokingly offered, immediately turning to his friends and laughing.
Clara had laughed too.
Then cried in the accessible bathroom where nobody could hear.
She looked back at Julian.
“I haven’t stood on a dance floor since I was a baby.”
He studied her for a moment.
Then slowly lowered himself, not into an exaggerated crouch, but onto one knee so their eyes were level.
“I didn't ask you to stand.”
Something inside Clara went perfectly still.
Julian offered his hand again.
“Dance with me.”
“How?”
“We figure it out.”
“You don’t know how.”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Great. Equal disadvantage.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
People were beginning to watch.
Not everyone.
Three guests near the champagne table.
A couple beside the pavilion.
That was enough.
Clara could feel the old instinct rising.
Disappear.
“Everyone will stare.”
Julian glanced around.
“They already are.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“It bothers me.”
He nodded.
That answer surprised her.
Most people would have told her not to care.
Julian did not.
“Then we can stay here.”
He started to stand.
Clara looked at his hand.
Then at the dance floor.
Somewhere inside her, anger appeared.
Not at him.
At nineteen years of standing outside things before anyone had technically excluded her.
At every party where she decided rejection in advance.
At her mother.
At herself.
At a body she did not hate until other people reminded her to.
“Wait.”
Julian stopped.
Clara put her hand in his.
His smile came slowly.
“No spinning me into a shrub.”
“I promise nothing.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He stepped beside her.
“May I?”
He gestured toward the wheelchair handles.
Clara appreciated the question.
“Yes.”
Julian guided her onto the dance floor.
Conversations softened.
Clara immediately regretted everything.
Then Julian moved around to face her.
He held one hand.
With the other he did nothing.
No touching the chair without permission.
No attempt to perform some theatrical rescue.
He simply began walking backward with the rhythm.
Clara pushed one wheel.
Then the other.
The chair turned gently.
Julian stepped with her.
It was awkward.
Then less awkward.
Clara laughed.
Not politely.
Actually laughed.