Page 39 of None Of Your Business

Eleven

Hudson

Rowan is back.

I know before I look up from my notes. It’s ridiculous. There’s no reason I should notice her entering a room before anyone else, yet something in the atmosphere changes, and my attention goes straight to the door.

She stands in the doorway in a dark denim jacket, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. A tightness sits around her mouth that wasn’t there last week.

Then she looks at the one-way mirror. She lifts two fingers to her lips, mimes zipping them shut, and tosses an imaginary key over her shoulder.

A deal’s a deal.

She takes her seat, crosses her legs, and does her usual quick scan, making sure everyone is present before settling in.

The session is a good one. Webb is sharp today, moving through the circle.

Across the room, Rowan is drawing.

I’ve wondered what she draws. Whether she draws the people or the space between them, whether she draws what she sees or what she understands about it. Whatever she’s taking from this room, it’s working.

It’s professionally interesting, which is the only way I’m going to think about it.

Her limp has been there on and off since I met her. At first, I assumed it was an injury, but then I watched her move. She compensates whenever her movements require more stability, but not consistently enough for me to understand it.

Her intake form says Dr. Mercer referred her. I’ve considered looking up Mercer, but I haven’t. As the study lead, I’m entitled to ask some questions, and others I’m curious about because Rowan has somehow become a recurring disruption in my life. They’re not the same. I know the difference. Curiosity is not permission.

Beckett described her as a loner. She keeps to herself, sometimes misses family dinners, and is hard to reach when she’s working.

I’m not convinced.

I’ve watched her in this room for weeks, and what I see is not someone who dislikes people. People in this group seek her out after sessions. She remembers details people mention in passing and follows up on them a week later. She engages without seeming to try.

Maybe she likes the edges of rooms because they’re quieter.

The session moves on. Bridget is crying because Howard forgot their anniversary for the fourth year in a row.

“It’s not just a date, Howard,” she says, swiping angrily at her cheeks. “It’s that I don’t exist on your schedule.”

Howard looks like a man who wants to crawl under his chair. “I didn’t forget you. I forgot the date.”

Webb leans in. “Howard, when Bridget says she feels like she doesn’t exist on your schedule, what do you hear?”

“That I’m an asshole?”

Bridget lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. Across the room, Rowan’s pencil stops as she laughs silently.

Her laughter stops when she shifts and winces.

She presses her lips together and moves her left leg. A minute later, she does it a second time. Then a third.

She looked uncomfortable when she arrived, but now she’s pale.

I force my attention away. This isn’t my role. Rowan is not my patient. She isn’t even part of the research cohort anymore. Dr. Webb agreed to let her continue attending as an observer, provided she obeys confidentiality rules and doesn’t interfere with the process.

At the end of the session, I’ll—

I’ll what? Ask her if she’s okay? She’ll say she’s fine. Ask whether the limp is worse? She’ll tell me to mind my own business.