“It’s not broken on the inside,” I insisted. I knew what he wasn’t saying—that he thought the issue wasn’t with my body but rather my mind. We’d had this argument before. But as I’d told him, repeatedly, that was a load of horseshit. I was in here, wasn’t I? Wouldn’t I know if I was mental? “How am I supposed to live like this?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His gaze was full of sympathy, which made my stomach turn. I glanced away. Shame at my own weakness bubbled up in the back of my throat like bile, and I desperately wanted to punch something until my knuckles bled.

As if he knew I needed a minute, Jackson strode over to the windows that overlooked my backyard. He stood there, looking out over the lawn and the pool, while I collected my shattered sense of self and reined in my temper. It took a minute or ten.

These episodes didn’t usually last very long, five to ten minutes but sometimes more; still they freaked me out all the same, because I never knew when or where they were going to happen or if they would be a precursor to something worse. The anxiety I felt anticipating these episodes ate at me day in and day out and was almost worse than my body betraying me. Almost.

When I felt my strength return, for the most part, I glanced at Jackson, preparing to call him back. Even though I’d had an episode, I knew he wouldn’t let me shirk the rest of my workout. Which was fine. I wasn’t a quitter, and I wasn’t giving up on myself. Not today.

As he gazed out the window, a small smile turned up the corners of his mouth. He must have felt my stare, because he turned to me and said, “She’s out there.”

He didn’t need to tell me who she was. I lifted the water bottle to my lips and drained half of it. “So what?”

He turned back to the view and let out a low whistle.

“She’s a looker.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, and one of his eyebrows quirked up in challenge before he returned to the window.

“Right, your idea of a good-looking woman is whether or not she can bench-press a car,” I said. “If you think she’s good-looking, then she’s definitely not my type. I don’t go for women who wrestle hogs for fun.”

“If you say so,” he said. He didn’t turn away from the window but kept staring, clearly enjoying the view.