“What?”
“When you were trying to get me to play tennis, you said your doctor recommended tennis for your blood pressure. I thought you were making it up.”
“Well, that was the idea,” I admit. I wouldn’t have said it if I thought she’d believe it. “And he didn’t specifically recommend tennis, but my blood pressure was a bit high.”
She frowns. “So are you on medication or something?”
“No.” Healthy young people don’t take blood pressure medication. “The doctor just suggested I exercise more.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago.” The day I met her, actually.
Ally’s gaze sweeps down my torso, heating my skin. “But you were already exercising,” she says slowly. “You must have been, right? I mean, no one gets in that kind of shape overnight.”
“Yeah, every day,” I reply. “Except for the days I was on call. And I was already eating pretty well. And I’d already cut out caffeine and alcohol because of the tremor.”
“So the blood pressure could be stress too,” she says thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, Ally. I don’t think I’m actually under that much stress?—”
“Not under that much stress?” Ally exclaims. “Drew, you’re doing brain surgery, and teaching residents, and doing research, and on top of all that, you’re the chief of surgery!”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “But?—”
“Take this past week,” she interrupts. “Most mornings you left for work before I was even awake, and you didn’t get home until late. And when you did get home, you went to the gym. That’s not healthy.”
I can’t tell her that this past week doesn’t reflect my usual pattern; I’ve been staying away from the condo because I find her presence distracting.
Actually, distracting isn’t a strong enough word. Ally Parker is driving me batshit insane.
But still, she has a point. Even before she moved in, I was working a lot.
“You need to make more time for self-care,” she continues earnestly.
Self-care?I smother a laugh, and it turns into an unconvincing cough.
Ally stares at me. “I’m sure you think self-care is just a woke term for laziness, but?—”
I can’t suppress the laughter anymore, and this time there’s no way she could mistake it for a cough.
“What?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her when I’ve collected myself. “I just always thought self-care was a euphemism for . . . something else.” Something I do in the shower, after Ally’s asleep, and always to visions of her.
Ally’s eyes widen, and a faint blush spreads across her cheeks. It’s clear she gets my meaning.
“Oh. Oh,” she stammers. “Right, yeah. Well, that’s probably also good for stress relief.”
“Probably.” It does take the edge off a little.
“But seriously, Drew, if you keep going like this, you’ll burn out.”
“I don’t think things are that bad,” I argue. “And like I said, I exercise, and I don’t drink?—”
“I think that’s your problem,” she interrupts. “You’re too disciplined.”
“What do you mean?”
