I’m not fucking breathing.
My hands fly to my throat.
Axel looks at me, confused. Then he drops his shirt. “Shit.”
In the next moment, he’s leaping over a duffel bag, then lands in front of me.
He yanks me toward him. “I’ve got you.”
He wraps his muscular, sweaty body around me, so my back rests against those glistening, perfect abs. He tightens his grip around my waist, then pulls his arms over my stomach hard.
Nothing happens.
My head swirls. My chest hurts. The edges of my vision go soft and dark, and my legs turn to water beneath me.
Oh, God.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die because I couldn’t eat a fruit in his presence.
“Shit.” His gravelly, rough voice is against my neck.
I’m going to die in his arms.
He gives me the Heimlich again, harder this time and more violent. He lifts me off the floor.
This time, the grape flies out and hits the wall with a wet smack.
“Thank God,” Axel says.
I collapse against his torso, then start to cough up acid and sourness. My whole body shakes, and my eyes are tearing. He turns me around. I’m sure my face is red and terrible-looking.
“Get it all out.” Axel pats my back.
I’m leaning against his chest now. His salty scent surrounds me, nothing like the bubblegum and flowery perfumes of the popular girls in high school. He smooths my hair from my face and stares into my eyes.
I cough again. He steps away, and I get it.
That was pretty disgusting.
He must be horrified. He comes back a moment later with a trash can, and he thrusts it in front of my face. “Spit.”
Shame gurgles through every cell, but I won’t disobey him. I rid myself of the last remnants of the grape and sour saliva.
He beams.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. I?—”
“Those are some big grapes,” he says. “Could have happened to anyone.”
I doubt that, but it’s nice of him to say.
“Hey, I saved your life,” Axel exclaims. “My twin brother is going to West Point, but I already saved a life. Wait until he hears this.” He cackles happily. “This year is going to be so awesome.”
Axel glances at the poster. “Which one was your favorite?”
“The Two Towers.”
He beams. “Right? I can’t believeThe Return of the Kingwon the Oscar. People in the 2000s had zero taste.” He’s still not wearing a shirt. He’s standing there, sweaty and glistening, discussing Tolkien like this is normal. “Who do you like more—Arwen or Éowyn?”
