“This morning, when I was bench pressing, you were about to tell me what you thought I should do,” I reminded him. “But we got interrupted.”

“Oh, right, by the hot tenant,” he said. He wagged his eyebrows. I stared at him.

He scrunched up his face as if trying to remember. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “You should go meet her.”

I glared. “That wasn’t what you were going to say. You just made that up.”

He shrugged. “So? The fact remains. She’s your tenant, and you should go meet her and welcome her to her new home.”

“You mean her temporary lodgings,” I corrected him. “She’ll be leaving in six months if not before.”

“Unless you like her and invite her to stay longer.” Again, he wagged his eyebrows.

I shook my head. “That’s never going to happen. I can’t even imagine attempting to date anyone like this.” I spread my arms wide to encompass my entire body.

Ironically, I was in the best shape of my life. At any other time, I’d be happy to be out there in the sea of singles, mixing and mingling, but no. I’d limited my alcohol intake to almost never, and given up sugar, almost all caffeine, and women, basically anything that made life worth living.

For the past few months, I’d worked out just about every day with Jackson. I was determined never to be as vulnerable as I was on that horrible afternoon, knowing something was wrong but unable to communicate as my body went weak, my face drooped, and my ability to form words evaporated. The mere memory of it caused me to break into a sweat as my heart raced, which scared the crap out of me and then made me furious. I hated feeling weak.

Of course, this was exactly why I put up with the big blockhead. Jackson took our workouts seriously. My goals were his goals. Straight up. I trusted him even if he did end every workout by blasting Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” on the sound system.

“What does Dr. Henry say?” Jackson asked, breaking the silence.

“That he’s run every test he can think of and there’s nothing wrong,” I said. “I’m a medical anomaly.”

Jackson tugged at his chin hair. I recognized it as his go-to gesture when he was thinking about something. Very slowly, his gaze rolled up to mine and he said, “I think you need a different sort of doctor.”

“I already have a cardiologist, a general practitioner, a neurosurgeon, and a neurologist,” I said. “I am ass deep in doctors. Who else could possibly help me at this point?”

He stared at me as if gauging my possible reaction to what he was about to say. He wasn’t usually this circumspect so I felt myself prepare to be on the defensive.

“A therapist,” he said. “I think you need a therapist.”