Page 22 of None Of Your Business

Oh, fuck me. I’m in the wrong room.

I’ve been single for over two years. I’m not experiencing “relational stress” unless you count my arguments with a blank canvas.

Dr. Webb is already moving on, talking about “the architecture of intimacy.” The door is right behind me. To leave, I just have to turn around and walk out.

When I stand, my chair legs catch on the tile floor, making a loud, sharp screech. Every head in the circle snaps toward me.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

Dr. Webb offers a knowing smile. “It’s completely normal to feel cold feet during your first session. Stepping into this room takes a lot of vulnerability.”

“No, I mean, I came here for—”

“And please, don’t feel discouraged because you came alone tonight,” she cuts in smoothly, gesturing to the rest of the circle. “You’re not the only person here without their significant other. A different perspective is often useful to the group.”

Before I can get a syllable out, she hands me a plastic clipboard with a black pen and gives my shoulder a reassuring pat.

There is a very specific kind of social paralysis that happens when you’ve tried to correct someone twice, and they’ve responded with kindness both times. A third attempt feels like an assault.

“This is just the standard intake packet,” she says quietly. “Have a look through it during the session. If you decide you don’t want to come back, you can take it with you or throw it away. No obligation. Take a breath.”

From across the room, a hand shoots up. It belongs to a woman in a crisp blazer. “I’m here alone too,” she announces. “My husband refused to come because he couldn’t pause his Call of Duty game long enough to acknowledge that our marriage is currently a dumpster fire. I’m Chloe.”

Two chairs down, a guy in a vest raises his hand. “My husband thinks therapy is for people who can’t handle real life,” he mutters. “So, apparently, I’m the only weak link in our household tonight. I’m Marcus.”

“My partner thinks I’m at a high-intensity spin class,” a woman in a yellow cardigan whispers. “I’m wearing leggings under this skirt to keep up the lie. I’m Gemma.”

This has gotten away from me so quickly I’m no longer sure honesty is socially appropriate.

Hi, I’m Rowan. I’m single, chronically ill, and here because I can’t paint feels unnecessarily disruptive.

My knees choose that exact moment to give out. I drop back into my chair with a soft huff, the clipboard resting on my lap.

“Okay then,” I mutter, folding my arms over the intake form.

The first couple, Jason and Amanda, are embroiled in a feud over the dishwasher.

Dr. Webb doesn’t laugh, which is exactly why I’m not a therapist. How the hell do you not laugh at this?

“How often are you arguing about the dishwasher?”

Amanda’s posture slumps. “Every night.”

It takes another five minutes to learn they have three children under four, that neither has slept properly in a year, and that Jason works ten-hour days, coming home convinced Amanda resents him for being away, while Amanda spends those same ten hours convinced Jason thinks raising three toddlers doesn’t count as work. The dishwasher isn’t the problem.

Gemma, the woman lying about spin class, has a mother-in-law problem. Specifically, her mother-in-law has a key.

“She reorganized our kitchen on Tuesday,” Gemma says. “On Thursday, she folded my laundry. Yesterday, she reorganized my underwear drawer.”

Gemma doesn’t need therapy. Gemma needs a locksmith.

Then we move to David and Todd. They want a dog, or rather, David wants a rescue dog, and Todd does not.

“I’m not anti-canine,” Todd says tightly. “I just think our foundation needs to be stable before we add a dependent creature to the ledger.”

“It’s a dog, Todd!” David fires back, his jaw clenching. “You’re acting like I’m asking to adopt a fire-breathing dragon! What you’re really saying is that our relationship can’t sustain a Labrador.”

The room goes silent.