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.
Rowan was never supposed to be part of my Tuesdays. She was never supposed to be in this room at all. What started as an unusual concession has become a routine so established that there’s a packet of her favorite sour candy in the second drawer.
There’s also a purple pen on my desk that isn’t mine.
And yesterday, I discovered she’d put googly eyes on my stapler.
I check the clock. It’s six.
She isn’t coming.
An uncomfortable pressure settles behind my ribs.
I’m about to look over my notes when Rowan backs into the observation room, using her ass to push the door while balancing two coffees and a white cardboard box against her chest.
My mood changes so quickly it would be humiliating if anyone were here to witness it.
“There.” She kicks the door shut. “Handled beautifully.”
She’s wearing faded jeans, battered boots, and an oversized green sweater that slips off one shoulder beneath the strap of her bag. Her hair is twisted under a baseball cap, though several strands have already escaped and curl around her cheeks.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you too, Shrink Wrap.”
“Shouldn’t you be at the gallery?” I ask, folding my arms.
“Everything is done. Miracles do happen.”
“You’re completely finished?”
“Completely finished.”
“And of all the places in the city to relax, you chose a windowless box?”
She taps her boot against the floor.
“I thought I’d come for one last session,” she admits quietly. “To say goodbye.”
The woman who spent the first month driving me toward an early coronary can now say three simple words and leave me temporarily incapable of normal human speech.
“I suppose I can tolerate you for one more hour. Sit down.”
“How generous,” she says, thrusting one of the coffees toward me. “For you.”
“Did you spit in it?”
“Not this week.”
I take a cautious sip. Black. Exactly the way I take it.
“What’s in the box?”
She drops into the chair beside mine and tucks one leg beneath her. “Pastries.”
On the desk, the stapler looks at me again.
“Ro?”
“Hmm?” She opens the box of cinnamon rolls.
“Why is my stapler staring at me?”
She looks toward the desk, her mouth twitching. “Name him.”
“I’m not naming the stapler.”
“Stanley.”
“No.”
“Stanley the Stapler. It’s official.” She beams as she tears a cinnamon roll in half and holds one half toward me.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The session begins, and I do what I’ve done every Tuesday for the past few months. I listen to the group while I try not to watch Rowan.
To her credit, she rarely comments on the group other than, “Howard is being a dick again.”
But every so often, like now, she leans closer to the glass.
“There.”
I glance at her. “What?”
“His knee.”
Marcus is talking about his husband.
“What about it?”
“It stopped bouncing.”
She’s right.
“He does that when he talks about anything that scares him,” Rowan whispers. “But when he talks about his husband, it stops.”
She peers at my page as I write. “Are you stealing that?”
“I’m documenting an observation.”
“My observation.”
I write another line. She immediately leans across me, trying to see past my forearm as I angle the page away.
“I’ve never peeked at your top-secret shrink notes. I just want to see that one line.”
“You are fundamentally incapable of respecting basic professional boundaries.”
“I think boundaries left the building months ago.”
When she realizes I’m not going to give in, she sighs and sits back.
I turn back to the group and spend the next several minutes hearing only half of what Marcus says.
This has been happening a lot lately. I notice her.
I notice the exact second she arrives. I notice when she’s quiet.
I notice when her hip flares and she tries to hide the pain by shifting her weight.
I notice when she laughs so hard she ducks her head toward her knees.
I notice when she steals my pen and chews the cap despite my repeated instructions to stop.
I notice the tiny, sharp breath she takes before she argues with me.
I’ve become familiar with her presence in a way I never intended to.
And all week, I’ve been dreading tonight. Her last Tuesday.
Tuesdays mean Rowan. This observation room means Rowan. Coffee at six means Rowan sitting inches from me, her foot tucked under her thigh.
After tonight, none of it does.
∞∞∞
The session wraps up just after seven. The lights in the main room dim as people gather their coats and leave. Rowan waits until it’s empty, then stands up and stretches her arms over her head, her sweater pulling up just enough to expose a sliver of pale skin at her waist.
“You should consider sleeping before Friday,” I tell her.
“I’ll put it on my to-do list.” She picks up her bag and looks around. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“Neither of us is dying, Rowan. I’m sure we’ll see each other.”
“Oh?”
“Your show is on Friday.”
“It is.”
“And the city is not being evacuated immediately afterward.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“So, presumably, our paths will continue to cross.”
A slow smile starts at the corner of her mouth. “Our paths? Is that the clinical term for it?”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know. You voluntarily tolerating my existence?”
“Voluntarily is generous.”
“See? This.” She gestures between us. “I’m going to miss this.”
I want to tell her I will too. Instead, I say, “Who else is going to deface my stationery?”
Her smile softens into something quieter, her green eyes holding mine. “Exactly.”
The room suddenly feels too small. Too fucking still.
I’ve sat beside this woman for hours. I’ve carried her home. She’s fallen asleep against my chest. I’ve watched her laugh, deflect, wince, lie terribly, and care fiercely about people when she thinks nobody is looking.
I don’t know when it happened, but she stopped being a data hazard a long time ago and became the person I expect to see.
The person I look for.
It’s easily the most dangerous thing I’ve ever allowed to happen.
She clears her throat. “Well, I should go.”
“Probably.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stellar farewell, Doctor. Truly moving.”
“What do you want me to do, salute?”
“A hug wouldn’t kill you.”
It just might, Rowan. It just fucking might.
I reach for her and pull her into my chest.
She freezes for a second before her arms wrap around my waist.
“See?” she murmurs against my chest. “Not dead.”
It’s not the first time this fear has hit me—the realization of how seamlessly she fits in my arms.
Every instinct in my body screams at me to keep touching her. To cup her face. To slide my thumb over her bottom lip and find out exactly what she tastes like.
My heart is fucking pounding against my ribs.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat and force my hands into my pockets where they belong.
“Best of luck on Friday,” I say, stepping back. “Not that you need it.”
She stops on the threshold, offering a quiet smile that reaches her eyes. “Thanks, Hudson.”
Then she’s gone.
I clench my fists, drag a palm hard down my face, and breathe through it, trying to get my pulse back under control.
Any other man would have fucking kissed her.
When I finally drop my hand, two plastic eyes on my desk are staring directly up at me.
“Shut up, Stanley.”