Seven
Hudson
The observation room is six feet by eight feet, tucked behind a door marked Private at the end of the ground-floor hallway. A pane of one-way glass covers most of the wall, facing a room with a semicircle of chairs on the other side.
I haven’t sat in on one of Webb’s sessions for weeks.
I don’t need to. That’s the point of hiring competent people.
The study is fourteen months old. The pitch is simple: couples experiencing relational strain get free group therapy in exchange for being observed.
Our team anonymizes the session data for a longitudinal study on relational decay and repair.
Specifically, we’re tracking whether single attendees—people whose partners won’t or can’t come—process crisis differently than couples sitting in the room together.
Dr. Cara Webb runs the therapeutic side. She’s been a colleague for seven years, a friend for five, and she’s exceptionally good at getting people to talk.
I recognize everyone until I reach the chair on the far left. Copper hair falls forward as a woman leans over something in her lap.
The pencil in her hand moves quickly across a small sketchbook.
I reach for my glasses. There is absolutely no reason putting them on should change the identity of the woman sitting twenty feet away, but I put them on anyway.
Dark red hair, a bouncing leg, and a scowl?
Oh yeah. That’s definitely her.
Littlest Callahan. Fire-hydrant enthusiast. Accidental occupant of my bed.
This is already more information than I ever expected to possess about her.
But what the hell is she doing in my study… coloring?
I run through what I know about Rowan.
Youngest Callahan. Artist. Twenty-six. Single, as far as I know. Drunk enough a few weeks ago to tell me in considerable detail about the flexibility of her hips. Loud when embarrassed. Even louder when trying to pretend she isn’t embarrassed. Apparently incapable of accepting assistance.
No husband was mentioned.
Although, in fairness, neither was an address, so what do I know?
I make a note, then draw a line through it. Rowan is not my patient. I don’t know why she’s here, and until I do, I’m not putting observations about her into research notes.
Webb checks in with everyone before her eyes land on the far left chair.
“Is there anything you’d like to contribute tonight?”
Rowan’s head snaps up. She looks at Webb, glances down at her lap, and slides her sketchbook under the clipboard in one swift motion. The edge of her hand is dark with graphite.
“Sorry,” her voice comes through the feed. “I’m just not ready.”
The second Webb turns her attention elsewhere, Rowan pulls the sketchbook back out. She flips the page and starts a new outline. She stays on that drawing until the hour ends.
Webb comes into the observation room five minutes later with a folder under her arm.
“Hudson.”
“Good session?”
“David and Todd are turning a corner,” Webb says, dropping into the chair across from me and opening her folder. “Robert and Elena are the most interesting case in the cohort right now. Chloe’s husband still isn’t coming. I’ve suggested she raise it with him.”
“She’s not ready for his answer.” I nod along, making my own notes. “The new solo attendee?” I ask once we’ve covered the rest.
Webb looks up. “Rowan?”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s observant. Quiet. She left a lot of fields blank on her paperwork.”
Rowan doesn’t strike me as someone who stays anywhere she doesn’t want to be, which means something made her.
“What about her partner?”
“She didn’t list one.”
Webb hands me the clipboard.
Name: Rowan Callahan
Age: 26
Referred by: Dr. E. Mercer
Dr. Mercer? I rack my brain, but nothing clicks.
I review the list of presenting concerns. She checked four boxes: Communication difficulties, feeling unheard, difficulty expressing needs, disconnect between self and partner.
“She’s a valid data point,” Webb says, gathering her belongings. “And she drew a remarkably accurate sketch of Robert while he was talking. She’s good.” She picks up her bag. “Same time next week?”
“Same time next week,” I confirm before she leaves.
Picking up the form, I slot it into my folder with the rest of the cohort paperwork.
I came here tonight to observe a study I’ve spent fourteen months building. Instead, I’ve spent an embarrassing percentage of the hour watching Rowan draw people.
Next Tuesday, she’ll be back.
That’s fine.
Completely fine.
I have meetings next Tuesday, work, an entire life that does not require me to personally observe these sessions.
I look at the chair on the far left one more time.
Fuck.