“Do you have heart problems?” “No.” Of course, his assumption is clinical. I hate the reminder that he sees me as a patient, but warm at the concern in his voice. “Does anyone in your family?” he asks, holding my pulse point on my wrist, which makes my heart kick like a mule. “No.” “When did this start?” The second I smelled sugar cookies and heard your nervous voice when I opened my door two months ago? Licking my chlorinated lips, I swallow, unsure why I shoot for honesty. “A few weeks ago.” “A few weeks ago? And you didn’t tell me?” “I thought…maybe it’d go away.” “Riley, you should have
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