"Lindsey?" a voice called my name, but it sounded so far away, almost like an echo.

My whole body ached as if someone had used me as a punching bag, a thick fog surrounded my brain, and there was a ringing in my ears that prevented me from hearing clearly.

"Lindsey, wake up." A pair of hands gently shook my shoulders. "Lindsey, wake—"

As my eyes fluttered open, I heard sighs of relief coming from beside me.

"Oh, thank God," Bree said.

I had no idea what happened, where I was, or why Bree sounded so worried. My head was spinning and my vision was blurry, but I could see a man kneeling next to my sister.

"Goldilocks?" I murmured as my eyes came into focus. I tried to pull myself into a sitting position, but pain shot through my back. "Ouch . . ."

"Easy there." Jake placed a folded towel and tucked it behind my head while Bree helped me lie back on the floor.

"What happened?" My head pounded as if someone had struck me with a brick. I rubbed the sore spot, wincing a little. "Where am I?"

"You don't remember?" Bree cocked her head forward and observed me, the concern in her eyes deepening. "You're in Sweat Paradise."

"Sweat Paradise? Why am I at a—"

As I glanced around me, my memory trickled back in. How I danced on the treadmill, how Jake surprised me, and how the machine flung me across the room.

Oh, no. Embarrassment flushed up my neck and heated my face.

"You know what?" I summoned every bit of energy in my body and sat up. "I gotta go." I jumped to my feet, but a stab of pain shot up from my ankle. "Ouch—"

The room whirled around me. I flapped my arms like a frantic bird to keep my balance, but gravity pulled me backward. While Bree tried to grab my hand and missed, Jake slid an arm around my waist, steadying me.

"You okay?" he asked, his warm breath brushing against my temple.

My heart jackhammered in my chest, my breath came in short gasps, and my head felt heavy. Uh-oh. This isn't good. I didn't have a concussion, did I? Because if I did, then I'd need to go to the hospital. And that meant spending lots of money on medical—

"Hey." Jake waved his hand in front of my eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

My vision was blurry. For a second, it looked like he was holding up three fingers. But then the fingers merged into one. And then it split into six.

He didn't have six fingers on one hand; that, I knew for sure.

I squinted and tried to focus my fuzzy brain, but I still couldn't tell how many fingers he was holding. Nevertheless, I lied, "Two."

"That's it," Bree said. "We're going to the ER."

"No, no, no." I lurched toward Bree. "I don't need to go to—" Everything spun around me as if I'd been on a carousel. "Oh, cr—"

Jake was quick to tighten his grip around me to keep me from falling. "Linds. You should listen to your sister."

My stomach churned, and a wave of nausea rose up my throat. I swallowed hard and blinked several times. When the dizziness persisted, I heaved out a sigh. "Fine."

***

The next morning, my vision was back to normal and the dizziness had receded. But the accident had given me two black eyes and bruises all over my body. Even after taking the painkillers that the doctor had prescribed, my body still ached and my head still pounded, especially when I thought about my emergency room bill yesterday.

I was lying on my bed when Bree told me she was going to the grocery store.

"Get some rest, okay?" Bree said. "I'll be back as soon as I can. If you need anything, just call."

I gave her a thumbs-up, too tired to speak.

After Bree left, I tried to go back to sleep. But I couldn't. I supposed I'd slept too much yesterday my body just refused to rest again. Bored, I reached for my phone on my nightstand and checked my messages.

There was a new message from Wyatt, dated yesterday.

Hey, I heard about what happened. Hope you feel better soon!

Wyatt was being kind, but instead of making me feel better, his message reminded me of the opportunity I'd lost. I couldn't go to the state prison with Mr. Grant and Wyatt for the Jim Pansy interview yesterday because I'd been stuck at the ER all day. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and I missed it because of a stupid accident.

Heaving out a sigh, I texted Wyatt: Thanks! Feeling better already ☺

My mood was dropping, but I tried to stay positive. It was just one interview, Lindsey. Surely missing it won't end your career before it even starts.

As I tried to fill my head with positivity, I checked my other notifications. There were several notifications from TweetyGram, telling me who had liked and commented on the gym selfie I'd posted the day before yesterday.

@NatalieWinters commented on your post: #bodygoals 😍😍😍 This makes me miss the good ol' days tbh. We should work out together sometime! @GingerbreadSmoothie @QueSeraSera @ParisInParis

@QueSeraSera commented on your post: @NatalieWinters Totally! Just let me know when and where and I'll be there!

@ParisInParis commented on your post: OMG YESSSSS!! I would totally join you guys too if I were in LA 😭😭😭

It didn't surprise me that my friends commented on my post or that Nat was scheduling another get-together. What surprised me was the next two notifications.

@goodgalriri liked your post

@queencher liked your post

I could understand Harriet liking my post; maybe deep down she was still the nice girl I'd gone to school with. But it baffled me why Charity, of all people, would like a photo of me hitting the gym.

Suspicion tingled its way down my spine. Yet before I could think too much about it, a message arrived on my phone. It was from Jake.

Hey. You awake?

I felt a smile creeping in. Wait, what?

Shaking my head, I wiped the stupid smile off my face and texted him back.

No.

That was stupid. While I wondered if the concussion had killed my brain cells, Jake replied to my message.

I'll take that as a yes.

Is your door locked?

I arched an eyebrow.

Depends.

If you're thinking about raiding my refrigerator, then the answer is yes.

His response came right away.

I got you something.

He didn't buy me another dress, did he? My curiosity was piqued, and I shot him a reply.

The balcony door isn't locked.

Fighting the pain in my ankle, I pulled my body out of bed, took out my cardigan, and put it on. As I dragged myself back to bed, I heard the sound of my balcony door opening and closing. Soft footsteps moved toward my bedroom, and soon, there was a knock on my door.

"Come in." I sat on my bed and covered the lower half of my body with a blanket.

Jake cracked the door open. "Hey."

"Hey."

Stepping into the room, he waved a bouquet of yellow and orange flowers at me. "Brought you a little something."

The flowers looked fresh, but I didn't smell any fragrance, which led me to believe they were artificial. "Aww." I touched the flower's silky petals to confirm my hypothesis. "Fake flowers. My favorite," I joked as I made room for it on my nightstand. "Thanks."

I'd told him once about my flower allergy, and I couldn't help but wonder if that was why he chose to bring me artificial flowers instead of real ones.

Meh. He's not that thoughtful.

"You like macaroni, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, why?"

He held out a black lunch bag. "I feel terrible for what happened yesterday. You wouldn't have had the accident if I hadn't called your name, so I thought I'd make it up to you by cooking your favorite food."

My mouth fell open in disbelief. I unzipped the bag, thinking he was joking. But he wasn't. There really was a food flask in the bag. He even included a spoon with it.

"Wow. Thanks," I said, amazed. "And you don't have to feel bad about what happened. You didn't do anything wrong. I should've known better than to spin and twirl on a treadmill machine. Plus, if I didn't want to be recognized, I shouldn't have chosen a gym that was only a block away from here. So, the accident was completely on me."

He pulled his head back in surprise and, to my confusion, put a hand on my forehead. "Hmm. No fever. But the concussion must be severe for you to say that."

"Haha." I deadpanned. "Very funny."

I took out the flask and opened it. The mouthwatering aroma of chicken broth made my stomach growl even though I'd eaten less than an hour ago. Steam rose from the soup as I swirled the spoon in it. Carrots, potatoes, chicken thighs, wispy eggs, and macaroni. Everything looked delicious.

I lifted the spoon to my lips and blew on the soup. The moment the soup touched my taste buds, I couldn't help but groan. "Oh, my God. This is good. You cooked this yourself?"

"Yeah." A proud grin spread across his face. "When you spend so many hours at home with your grandma, you're bound to learn a thing or two. She used to make me chicken soup all the time when I was sick, and she taught me how to make it. I just added some macaroni in it for you."

"Oh." I slurped a spoonful of soup. "Your grandma must be one hell of a cook."

"Yeah, she is." Pulling up a chair next to my bed, he asked, "So how are you feeling?"

"Not bad, considering I've had a concussion and almost broke my ankle and everything."

He chuckled. "What were you doing dancing on the treadmill anyway? And why were you wearing a wig?"

"I was trying to film myself doing the Scary Treadmill Dance for Louise's TweetyGram. Heard it was something Malibu fans like to do. I was kinda hoping it'd get the Malibu Wolf's attention."

"Ah." He nodded. "You should've told me. I would've helped you with it."

I flicked my eyes at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm Louise's TweetyGram manager, remember? It's in my job description."

"Right." A smile crawled across my lips, but I suppressed it. "Well, one of the videos Bree filmed before my accident yesterday turned out pretty okay. Maybe you can help me edit it?"

"Sure. I have some work to do today though. How about tomorrow?"

"Of course. Thanks." As I continued eating, I remembered something I'd been meaning to ask him. "Hey, speaking of yesterday, what were you doing at Sweat Paradise?"

"I work there. I've told you, I'm a CPT."

"Yeah. You're a cat's personal trainer, right?"

He snorted a laugh. "Certified personal trainer. I train people. Not cats. Although that sounds like a whole lot of fun."

"Oh." I stretched my lips into an embarrassed grin. "That makes more sense."

He chuckled. "I don't usually go to the gym at four in the morning, but I heard from the staff there was a woman who'd been visiting the gym at 3 a.m. to dance on the treadmill machine. I was curious, so I went earlier yesterday morning to watch the show."

"Hmm. I see I've been the talk of the town," I mumbled.

"If it makes you feel any better, they said you were a terrific dancer."

The compliment sent a surge of pride through me. "Well, what do you know? It does make me feel better." I slurped the last of the soup and put the spoon in the empty flask. As I patted my full stomach, Medusa Lindsey reminded me of something important. "Ah!"

"What's wrong?" Jake asked, concerned. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no, it's just . . . I forgot to take a picture of the soup." As Jake arched an eyebrow at me, I explained, "Paris tagged me to do the What I Eat in a Week challenge on TweetyGram two days ago, so for the next few days I'm stuck with posting photos of the food I eat every day."

I might've acted as if I was forced to participate in the social media challenge, but the truth was I enjoyed it. I'd gotten more likes and followers ever since I'd joined the challenge, and as strange as it sounded, it made me feel like I belonged to a community.

I supposed I was a narcissist at heart.

"Hmm." Jake folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at me, studying my face.

I pulled my head back slowly. "What?"

"Have you been having trouble sleeping lately?"

I frowned, surprised by his question. "What are you doing?"

"Haven't you heard? There's a new doctor in town. He specializes in cheering up patients with his wit, good looks, and, well, what is it that women like to call it?" He lifted his shirt to flaunt his sculpted stomach and glanced down at it. "Ah, a Greek god's abs."

As I broke into a guffaw, pain shot through my stomach into my back. "Ouch. Don't make me laugh." I held my stomach, struggling to stop the laughter bubbling up from my chest. "You're not really a doctor, are you?"

"Nah," he answered with a wave of his hand. "I've spent way too much time in the hospital to want to work in one. Now, answer my question. Have you been having trouble sleeping?"

"I guess, yeah."

"Nightmares?"

I shook my head.

He rubbed his chin and nodded. "When did it start?"

"Hmm . . . about three weeks ago."

"How's your appetite? Any particular cravings?"

"Well, I've been dying to try that new Dragon Ice Cream everyone seems to love, but when I went past Dairy Princess on my way home from work a few days ago, there were like fifty people standing in line. Can you believe it?" I gave a short pause. "Fifty! Oh, and The Smoothie Fairy's Fairy Smoothie Bowls look soooo delicious. I want to try it, but it's kinda expensive. I mean, twenty dollars for a smoothie bowl? And—ooh! Don't tell Bree about this, but Greedy's new Sweety Fruity Burger is—"

I stopped when I realized Jake was staring at me as if I was possessed by the ghost of a hungry kitten.

I grinned awkwardly. "So, tell me, doctor. Am I dying?"

"No, but you do have a severe case of TweetyGram fever."

"TweetyGram fever?"

"Yeah. Basically, those who suffer from TweetyGram fever feel a burning desire for a TweetyGrammable life. Symptoms may vary from person to person. Some people experience insomnia, impulse buying, cravings for TweetyGrammable food, weight gain"—his comment made me suck my stomach—"and the desire to have the perfect beach body, which may lead to intense dieting or workout addiction."

I barked out a laugh. "You just made it all up, didn't you?"

"No, no. Trust me. Every TweetyGram user has gotten the fever at a certain point in their lives," he replied casually, but he didn't seem to be joking.

Curious, I asked, "Have you ever had the so-called TweetyGram fever?"

"Of course. You've been in my apartment. Why do you think Princess Tortie has so many toys?"

A giggle burst from my chest. "So is there any cure? Or am I doomed to die with this disease?"

"Well, there is one cure. I'll be right back." He rushed out of my apartment and came back a few minutes later with a black leather notebook in his hand. "Here you go."

I took the notebook he offered and flipped through the pages. My brows knitted together. "An empty notebook?"

"It's all I got in my apartment, but you can turn that into a gratitude journal."

"A gratitude journal?"

"Yeah." He took a seat on the chair beside my bed. "You know I spent half of my childhood in and out of the hospital, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So, while the kids in my neighborhood were going to the beach for the summer, or going to a theme park with their parents on the weekend, I was stuck in the hospital, getting chemo. Everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives while I was dying. It was frustrating. At one point, I got so fed up I refused to go to the hospital and demanded my parents take me to a theme park instead."

"How did your parents react?"

"Dad was furious, of course. Mom tried to bribe me with ice cream, as expected. Grandma, however, took me to the theme park like I wanted to," he concluded with a smile.

"I assume you had a good time?"

"Not really. The girl who sat behind me on the roller coaster screamed so loud she accidentally spat her chewing gum into my hair, I threw up when I got off the roller coaster, and someone pickpocketed my wallet."

"Oof."

He shrugged. "It wasn't the best experience. In fact, it was one of the worst experiences I've ever had. I did learn one thing though."

"What's that?"

"Sometimes what seems to be perfect is just an illusion. So instead of wanting what other people have, we should spend our time counting our blessings."

Jake's words struck a chord. I couldn't help but wonder if what he said applied to the lives I saw on social media. Over the past few weeks, I'd been stuck in comparing my lives with my friends' based on their social media posts. It never crossed my mind that maybe their posts were just a glimpse of their lives. I kept focusing on the photos they'd shared and never once stopped to think about what was going on behind the scenes.

"My grandma gave me a gratitude journal on our way home from the theme park that day," Jake said. "She told me to write what I was grateful for every day. It could be something small. Tiny, even. Such as having a bed to sleep on, or having fresh air to breathe. Or it could be something big." He gazed at me for a moment before he added, "Such as people, things, or animals I wouldn't trade for the world."

Something shone in his eyes. I didn't know what it was, but it somehow sent warmth flowing through my veins and made my heart beat faster.

Huh. Strange.

"Give it a try." He stood up and gave me a pat on my shoulder. "If it gets too much, just log off. Leave TweetyGram. Delete the app."

He excused himself and left my apartment. As I stared at the notebook he'd given me, the words he'd said played in my mind. Gratitude, huh?

Smiling to myself, I grabbed a pen and wrote on the first page:

Things I'm Grateful For:

1. A good friend

Author's Note:

So, any thoughts about this chapter?

Any idea why Harriet and Charity liked Lindsey's post? 👀

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading! :)