Page 72 of None Of Your Business

“Want a push?” I ask, standing behind her wheelchair.

“No.”

“Oh, come on. I won’t run this time.”

She barks a laugh.

Halfway to the house, she reaches for my hand. I give it to her.

Neither of us mentions the date again. We don’t need to.

Twenty-One

Rowan

Something is wrong with Hudson.

I noticed it at the group session on Tuesday night. Sitting so close to him in the observation room, it was impossible to miss.

He was quieter than usual. It wasn’t his normal, hyper-observant quiet, but a heavy silence that made the small room feel like an airless vault.

I even handed him a reason to tease me on a silver platter. During the second half of the session, I drew a remarkably detailed, wildly inappropriate sketch of a certain male body part. It had shading and an unnecessary but artistically impressive vein. I’d put effort into that penis.

When I nudged the pad toward him, he barely smiled.

Frankly, the lack of appreciation was insulting. It was one of my better penises.

“You okay, Shrink Wrap?” I’d asked when Dr. Webb dismissed the group.

He’d given me a flat, tight smile. “I’m fine.”

He used my favorite lie.

I didn’t push him. Hudson never forced me to hand over my secrets before I was ready, so I gave him the same courtesy. I packed up my sketchbook, squeezed his shoulder through the soft wool of his sweater, and left.

But damn it, I’m worried.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’ve been thinking about him every day since. Which explains why, through a combination of sheer impulse and complete insanity, I am standing outside his house.

My pulse kicks up as I stare at the front door.

This is insane.

I knock anyway.

Footsteps sound on the hardwood inside. A second later, the door swings open.

Hudson stands in the entryway in dark jeans and a plain black T-shirt, his hair rumpled like he’s been running his hands through it all morning. The second his blue eyes land on me, his entire face shifts from exhaustion to concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” I say quickly, holding up a hand before he can march me inside and take my vitals. “I’m physically intact.”

He blinks, apparently adjusting to the news that I’m not actively bleeding on his porch.

“Why are you here?”

“I need your help.”