Page 60 of None Of Your Business

“I try not to stress,” she says, tossing a handful of lemons into the cart. “But it’s a family trait. Then the stress makes me sick, and I end up stressing about being sick.” She shakes her head and sighs. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

I have a dozen medical questions, but I keep them to myself so she doesn’t bolt. “When’s the show?”

Her shoulders tense. “Autumn.”

“You told me you canceled the last one. Were you sick?”

A flash of something heavy crosses her face before she nods.

“What did your family think?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe that I couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“What’s the real story?”

“During a late studio session, I stretched too far, lost my balance, and partially dislocated my hip and shoulder.”

I stare at her profile. “Jesus, Rowan.”

“It happens,” she says, waving a hand.

We reach the end of the aisle, and I step around to face her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Why stop now?”

“Why not tell your family? Wouldn’t it make things easier?”

She takes a slow breath, looking past my shoulder. “No one knew what was wrong with me when I was a kid. When I was a teenager, they told my dad my fast heart rate was just panic attacks or hormones. Some doctors even hinted I was faking it for attention because my mom was sick.”

My jaw tightens.

“To my family, I was just the clumsy one. I was sent to therapy when the doctors couldn’t find a physical reason for the pain, and I was told it was all in my head.”

My blood turns cold. I’ve seen psychiatric diagnoses explain symptoms, but I’ve also seen them used as an excuse to stop looking. It’s fucking lazy.

“When I was sixteen, Mom had a severe relapse and went to the hospital. That same day, I tripped outside and injured my ankle. I didn’t tell a soul.” She looks back at me, her green eyes shimmering. “A week later, Noah came into my room, furious that I hadn’t visited Mom. He made me get up, saw I couldn’t stand, and took me to the ER. It turned out I’d been sitting on a fractured ankle for seven days.” She says it like it’s completely normal. “I moved out two years later. I’ve been on my own since.”

I look at the stubborn tilt of her chin, the slight tremor in her hands she tries to hide, the way she shuts down the moment she feels exposed. I see the years of quiet isolation she’s built around herself, hiding her pain so no one calls her fragile.

“Don’t you get lonely?”

I don’t know why I ask it. Maybe because I recognize the quiet space she lives in. I’ve spent the last few years in my self-imposed solitude, hiding behind research papers and hospital shifts.

“I like my own company.” Her tone is uncharacteristically quiet. “But sometimes I think it would be nice to come home to someone. Maybe a couple of kids running around?”

I blink. “Kids?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Children love me. I’m excellent at finger painting and ignoring mess.”

The image arrives before I can stop it.

I can see it. Rowan’s hands covered in paint, laughing as two kids with messy red hair run wild.

“What about you?” she asks, leaning her hip against the cart and watching me closely. “Will you ever be able to share yourself with anyone other than your work or your patients?”

I haven’t thought about a future like that in a long time. My life has been reduced to managing other people’s crises so I don’t have to look too closely at my own empty rooms. Sharing a life—sharing myself—feels like an abstract concept I locked away a long time ago.

Yet, listening to her describe it, coming home to someone doesn’t sound too bad.