Page 139 of None Of Your Business

I pick an armchair near the middle of the room and rest my hands in my lap.

“Alright, everyone,” Dr. Peters says, settling into her own seat. “Let’s begin. For those who are new, this is a space where you don’t have to explain why you’re tired. You don’t have to justify your pain, and you don’t have to pretend you’re fine for anyone else’s comfort.”

A quiet, collective exhale passes through the room.

The girl with the compression gloves goes first, talking about the frustration of having to cancel plans three weekends in a row. Then the man with the neck brace speaks about the quiet grief of losing the hobbies that used to define him.

I listen. I don’t draw. My sketchbook stays in my tote bag.

For the first time in my life, I’m not sitting in a room to observe somebody else’s story so I can hide.

“Rowan?” Dr. Peters asks after a while. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

I look around the circle. Nobody is staring with pity. Nobody is waiting for me to apologize for taking up space.

I take a deep breath.

“Hi. I’m Rowan. I have hEDS and POTS, and I’m an artist.”

The girl with the compression gloves smiles.

“Welcome, Rowan,” Dr. Peters says.

I lean back in the padded chair, the knot in my chest untying itself, and for the first time in years, I let myself be seen.

Forty-Four

Hudson

I’m locking the observation room door when a loud wolf whistle echoes down the hallway.

I’m already smiling before I turn around.

I watch Rowan close the distance. Her tote bag hangs from one hand, and there’s a brightness in her eyes that I’ve learned to look for over the last few weeks.

A good day. Not pain-free—I know better than to reduce her life to that—just a good one.

When she reaches me, I bend and kiss her right there in the middle of the hallway.

Her hand curls around the back of my neck, her lips softening into a smile against mine.

The last few weeks have settled into a rhythm neither of us planned, but we both stopped fighting. Her toothbrush is beside mine. My coffee appears on her studio workbench. Sometimes we have dinner at eleven because she forgot to eat until I showed up with food. Her legs draped across my lap while she sketches and I read. My spare key on her ring, and a twenty-pound bag of cat food sitting in my trunk because buying kibble in bulk is apparently something I do now.

Rowan asleep in my bed. Rowan painting in my house. Rowan calling me when she’s tired instead of waiting until she can barely stand.

Ordinary, quiet things I didn’t know I wanted until they became mine.

She pulls back. “How was the session?”

“Can’t tell you. You’re out of the group, and your confidentiality agreement expired.”

“I keep hoping sex will loosen your professional ethics.”

“Ineffective so far.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “How was group?”

“Good. I think I’ll go back next week.”

“I’m glad. You hungry?” I ask.