Page 99 of None Of Your Business

Piper, who has decided her earlier outburst wasn’t damaging enough, sets down her fork with sudden, horrified realization. “But he’s so huge. And you’re so tiny.” Her eyes go wide. “Does it even fit?”

Would it fit?

My brain supplies an immediate yes.

I have to physically shake my head to dislodge the thought before it takes root.

“Both of you,” I warn, pointing a finger between them, cheeks on fire. “Stop. We’re friends. He helped me. That’s it.”

That, somehow, lands harder than the sex accusation.

Madison’s laughter cuts off. “You’re friends with Hudson?”

“I—yes?”

“You hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him.” I stab another piece of lettuce. “I hate head doctors.”

Before they can launch into round two of the interrogation, my phone buzzes on the table.

Hudson: Your future brother-in-law just cried during a suit fitting because he “finally understands love.” I need you to know this happened, and I need you to suffer with me.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth before I can catch myself. I bite my lower lip and type a quick reply.

Me: He’s an emotional groom. Leave him alone. At least you don’t have sisters putting you on trial.

Hudson: Tell them I’m a consummate professional and a delight to be around.

Me: How do you know it’s about you?

Hudson: Isn’t it?

“Look at her!” Madison squeals, grabbing Piper’s arm and shaking it. “Look at that stupid smile. She’s texting him right now. Look at her thumbing away like a teenager.”

I flip my phone face-down on the table. “I refuse to discuss this further. Nothing fits anywhere because nothing needs to. We’re friends. He helped me. End. Of. Story.”

They both nod, and for one blessed second I think it’s over.

Then Madison lifts her glass, takes a satisfied sip, and says, “Jesus, it’s no wonder you’re limping.”

I cover my face with both hands, unable to hold it in anymore.

Twenty-Nine

Hudson

I know she isn’t coming.

I know this because her show opens Friday, and even someone allergic to sensible scheduling like Rowan has to be busy three days before an exhibition.

There’ll be canvases to varnish and frames to adjust, or whatever it is artists do in the final week before allowing strangers to stand around and publicly judge the physical manifestations of their souls.

So I’m not expecting her, which is why I’m irritated that I’ve looked at the door six times in the past ten minutes.

The chair beside mine remains empty.

Good. It’s better this way.