Page 33 of None Of Your Business

Hudson turns slowly, the fake smile vanishing the second Dr. Webb’s footsteps fade down the hallway.

He raises the intake sheet in his hand. “Care to explain why you’re in my research study, Littlest Callahan?”

“Your study?” I squeak before clearing my throat and manifesting a spine. “What do you mean, your study?”

“I run the research program. That one-way glass you’ve been sitting in front of for three weeks? That’s my observation room.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. The mirror. The one I’ve been staring at while drawing Jason’s hairline and David’s passive-aggressive posture. He’s been behind it the entire time.

“You’re a stalker!” I point a finger at his chest. “You’ve been spying on me! Pervert.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I tell him, having no idea where I’m going with this.

He arches a dark brow, refusing to take the bait. “I sit behind that glass to monitor couples. Imagine my surprise when I see you sitting there, coloring.”

“I was not coloring.” My cheeks burn. “It was sketching.”

“You are single.” He takes a step closer. “You filled out a form for couples therapy. You checked communication difficulties. You checked disconnect between self and partner. Under relationship status, you wrote it’s complicated.” He reads the lines off the paper, his eyes locking onto mine. “Do you have a secret husband?”

My brain freezes. Two responses are available to me. The first is the truth. The second is apparently: “Yes.”

He leans in like he didn’t hear me properly. “Yes?”

Too late now. “Yes, I’m married. Happily? Debatable. But legally? Absolutely. We had a ceremony. There were cupcakes.”

He crosses his arms, taking up an absurd amount of space. “Fascinating. What’s your husband’s name?”

Think, Rowan, think.

My brain enters white-hot panic. Every male name in the English language vanishes from my memory. For some ungodly reason, the only face that pops into my head is Madison’s old upstairs neighbor—an eighty-four-year-old man who died two years ago.

“Roger. His name is Roger.”

“Roger,” Hudson repeats in a tone that makes me want to kick his shin. “And tell me, does Roger know he’s currently married to a twenty-six-year-old artist, or is this a spiritual union?”

“He knows,” I huff, crossing my arms to match his posture. “He’s very aware of it. We have a lot of communication difficulties. A profound disconnect between self and partner. It was on the form, Shrink Wrap. Didn’t you read it?”

He goes silent for a long beat. “Wasn’t Roger your sister’s old neighbor?”

I really wish Madison would stop telling those stories.

“Why are you here, Rowan?”

“Therapy.”

“You’re not in a relationship.”

“Single people need therapy.”

“Not couples therapy. Why did you come to this group?”

“I ended up here!” I throw my hands in the air. “I didn’t know it was a couples group until I was already trapped in the circle, and then Dr. Webb handed me a clipboard and I panicked!”

His mouth opens and closes. For two glorious seconds, the brilliant psychiatrist looks completely speechless. “You… panicked?”

“Yes, I panicked! I tried to leave, but everyone was watching.”