Page 74 of None Of Your Business

“Rowan, I’m—”

“If you say fine, I’m drawing more penises next week.”

His mouth snaps shut.

“That’s what I thought.”

He stares at me.

“You helped me your way when I needed it,” I say. “You let me sit in your room. You gave me space to talk. You brought me food. You didn’t push when I didn’t want to tell you things. Now let me help you my way.”

He searches my face for several seconds. “What do you want me to do?”

Poor bastard sounds terrified.

I march over to the cans, pry open three lids with the flathead screwdriver I brought, and point toward the hanging canvas.

“Throw paint.”

His eyebrows lift. “What?”

“You heard me. Pick up a brush, load it with paint, and throw it.”

“I’m not throwing paint at my fence.”

“The fence is covered, you neat freak.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Throw the paint.”

“It’s an inefficient, messy, completely unscientific response to—”

“Talking doesn’t solve everything all the time!”

I grab a brush, soak it in yellow, and fling it at the canvas.

Paint explodes across the white surface.

“You spend your days protecting other people’s minds.” I turn to him. “Who protects yours?”

For one second, something raw flashes across his face.

Then his eyes narrow. “Have you been talking to my mother?”

My brush freezes halfway to the paint. “Huh?”

“Never mind.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Stop overthinking.” I dip another brush into bright pink and flick it toward the bottom of the canvas. “You’re doing it right now. Whatever is in your head, whatever you’ve been carrying all week, get it out.”

He gaze ping-pongs between me and the paint.

I see the moment the stoic, brilliant doctor gives up on being reasonable.

I expect him to pick up a brush.