Page 138 of None Of Your Business

Forty-Three

Rowan

The Westbrook Center looks different on a Tuesday evening when you aren’t actively trying to avoid it.

I’m six minutes early. A new personal record.

As I cross the ground floor toward the elevators, I catch a familiar voice near the main desk.

Gemma stands by the directory, talking with Robert.

He chuckles at something she said. “You have to set boundaries early, Gemma.”

I slow my pace, a warm smile pulling at my lips.

Robert turns, catching my eye first.

He nudges Gemma. “Look who it is.”

Gemma beams, stepping toward me. “It’s so good to see you! How’s your head? How are the paintings?”

“Head’s intact, paintings are sold,” I tell her, stepping close enough for a quick half-hug. “How’s the spin class cover story holding up?”

“Oh, I retired it. I told him the truth. We had a three-hour conversation about his mother’s boundary issues on Thursday. No spin shoes required. Are you coming in? Dr. Webb is already setting up.”

“Not tonight,” I say, pointing a thumb over my shoulder toward the elevators. “I’m headed upstairs.

“Well,” she says softly, “don’t be a stranger. Howard still needs someone to remind him about his anniversary.”

“I’ll drop in to heckle him soon,” I promise.

I wave goodbye to them both and step into the elevator, pressing the button for the second floor.

The doors slide shut, cutting off the hum of the lobby.

Months ago, I accidentally sat in a circle of strangers crying about their dishwashers and mothers-in-law because I was too terrified to walk into the room where people talked about their bodies. I spent months using their marriages as a buffer to avoid admitting that my own frame was fracturing beneath my feet.

The elevator dings.

Second Floor.

I step into the hallway. It’s calmer up here. The signs on the wall are clear, and I don’t even have to look twice to find it.

ROOM 12—CHRONIC ILLNESS SUPPORT GROUP.

I stand outside for three seconds, letting my breath settle. My hands aren’t shaking. My heart rate is steady. My foldable cane is in my bag in case I need it.

I push the door open.

Room twelve is smaller than room four. The chairs are arranged in a wide, comfortable circle—padded armchairs with heating pads slung over the backs of a few and leg rests tucked beside others.

A woman with a silver streak in her hair looks up from her clipboard. “Welcome. First time?”

“First time. I’m Rowan,” I say, stepping inside.

“I’m Dr. Peters. Grab any seat you like. We’re just getting started.”

I scan the circle. A man in his seventies with a neck brace gives me a polite nod. A girl who looks about twenty, wearing compression gloves similar to mine, offers a small wave.