Page 133 of None Of Your Business

I sit stiffly at the table, staring down at my plate, dragging my fork back and forth through a pile of cooling mashed potatoes. My hand is shaking so violently the tines scrape against the porcelain.

I’m going to be sick.

Mom keeps glancing between Beckett, Griffin, and the head of the table, her brow creased in deep confusion. Dad sits beside her, his shoulders rigid. They know something is up. They knew the second we walked through the door together, and they can’t figure out why Hudson is at a Callahan family dinner, sitting right beside me.

Across the table, Noah clears his throat and launches into a safe, mundane story about his clinic to break the unbearable silence. Slowly, the table fractures into cautious small talk.

Under the cover of the noise, a warm hand wraps around my trembling wrist.

“Hey,” Hudson says softly.

I look at him. He turns in his chair, completely ignoring the rest of the room, not giving a single fuck that my entire family is probably watching us and wondering what is happening. Reaching up with his other hand, he takes my chin between his fingers and gently tilts my face up to meet his.

His blue eyes sweep over my face, examining every line of stress, reading the exact level of panic humming under my skin.

“I need you to breathe,” he says quietly.

My heart is racing against my ribs like a trapped bird. I try to pull back, to look away before someone notices, but his grip remains steady and gentle.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, his thumb stroking over my jawline.

I close my eyes, take a long, shaky breath, and force the air back into my lungs.

When his hand finally falls away, I open my eyes and realize the conversation around the table has shifted to Madison and Beckett’s wedding.

Good. Good. At least it isn’t about me.

My mouth is bone-dry. I reach across the table for the jug of water, but the moment my fingers wrap around the handle, my wrist gives out.

The jug slips from my grip and crashes onto the table. Water explodes across the wood, soaking the placemats, cascading into my lap, and dripping onto the floor.

“Oh!” I gasp, scrambling back.

The entire table erupts. Piper springs into action. Noah reaches for a stack of napkins, while Madison is already on her feet, grabbing my arms to check if I’m cut.

Dad reaches for a towel, shaking his head as he wipes down the wood, and tosses out a casual laugh. “Who let butterfingers near the breakables?”

It’s meant to sound innocuous. It’s the same teasing remark he’s made a hundred times over twenty-six years, but now that everyone in the room knows the truth, the words land like a slap.

Madison freezes. Her hands drop from my shoulders, and her posture goes deathly rigid.

“Madison, don’t—” I try.

It’s too late. Madison absolutely explodes.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Dad?” she shrieks, her voice shattering the dining room.

Dad blinks, startled. “Madison, it was just a joke.”

“It’s not a joke!” A real, ferocious mama bear, Madison steps between my chair and our parents, her body trembling with fury, tears flooding her eyes. “Because she’s sick! Jesus Christ, Dad! She’s always been sick, and not one of us looked at her long enough to notice!”

“Madi, please,” I choke out, reaching for her hem.

She doesn’t stop. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks. “Mom wasn’t the only sick person in this house. And no, Rowan wasn’t trying to get attention. She was in pain.”

Dad slams his hand onto the table, his face reddening. “That’s enough!”

“No, it’s not nearly enough!” Madison screams right back, pointing an accusing finger at them. “Those pains she’s always had? Her hips? Her wrists? The fainting? It wasn’t all in her head.”