"You'll feel like an idiot with unstuck creative energy." He held out his hand. "Trust me."
Clara stared at his hand. This was stupid. Ridiculous. She had a deadline tomorrow and she was wasting time watching a grown man shimmy like a malfunctioning robot.
She took his hand.
Jack grinned—victorious and warm—and gave her a spin that made her stumble into him, laughing again. "Okay, now you try. Just shake. Doesn't have to be good. In fact, it's better if it's terrible."
"I can't?—"
"Yes, you can. I just demonstrated that looking stupid is the whole point. Now shimmy, Hawkins."
Clara felt ridiculous. Felt self-conscious and awkward and hyper-aware of her body moving in ways that definitely weren't graceful.
But Jack was watching her with such genuine encouragement—no judgment, no criticism, just this open enthusiasm for her looking as ridiculous as he had—that something in her chest loosened.
She shimmied. Badly. Terribly. Her shoulders barely moved, her hips felt stiff, and she probably looked like her joints were superglued together.
"There you go!" Jack cheered. "That's it! Worse! Make it worse!"
"It can't get worse!"
"Sure it can! Add arms!"
Clara flailed her arms experimentally. This was mortifying. This was?—
This was fun.
When was the last time she'd let herself be silly? Let herself look stupid without that voice in her head cataloging every awkward movement, every imperfection, every reason to beembarrassed?
Sam had hated when she was goofy. The impromptu dance parties in the kitchen, her terrible singing in the shower, the way she'd make up ridiculous voices for the pigeons outside their apartment window.
"Clare-bear, you're too old for that kind of behavior. It's not cute anymore."
She'd been twenty-nine.
She'd stopped dancing. Stopped singing. Stopped doing voices. Had packed away that playful part of herself because Sam said it was childish, immature, not befitting someone who wanted to be taken seriously in the ad world.
And she'd believed him.
"Wait," Jack said suddenly. "This needs music. Can't have a proper shake-out without music."
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through something. A moment later, music poured from the tiny speaker. Something upbeat and fun and completely inappropriate for a serious deadline crisis.
"Really?" Clara said.
"Really. Now dance with me."
"I don't?—"
But Jack had already spun her into his arms, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers, and suddenly theywere dancing. Not shimmying. Actually dancing, or something approximating it, in her circular lighthouse living room with the afternoon sun streaming through the windows and no good reason except that he'd suggested it.
Jack led her in an approximation of a swing dance—she thought? Maybe? It was hard to tell when neither of them seemed to know the actual steps. He spun her out, reeled her back in, dipped her unexpectedly enough to make her shriek with laughter.
"You're terrible at this!" Clara gasped.
"I know! Isn't it great?"
He spun her again, and she stumbled into his chest, both of them laughing, his arms catching her before she could fall. They were close now—close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the freckles across his nose, the way his smile crinkled at the corners.
