“Good?” I asked, though her expression answered for her.
“I’ve had better,” she joked, but the soft, beautiful sounds she made told another story, stirring a gratification I hadn’t felt in a long time. And a wishful thought popped into my head.
You could be responsible for more sounds like that.
Then Hazel coughed. Once. Twice. Another time after that.
“Wow, this is really good,” she said, but her voice sounded off. “What’s in it?”
“Chocolate with peach filling, I think.”
She froze for a second, her hand tightening slightly around the fork as a small, almost imperceptible twitch passed over her lips. Something shifted in her expression, and her eyes darted away before I could read them.
“It’s delicious,” she said, but her words expressed the complete opposite of her face. She glanced behind her, searching for something. Confused, I followed her gaze but saw nothing unusual.
“I, erm—” she cleared her throat, “I’m going to ask the chef for the recipe. I must have this.” Her smile was forced, face pale.
“Are you okay?” I asked, alarmed by how fast everything shifted. A moment ago, we were just laughing, enjoying life, caught in that rare space where we offered each other small, unguarded pieces of who we were.
“Yes, of course. I’m great.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. I’ll be back soon.” She smiled at the table, but something was off. She grabbed her bag and left in a hurry. I looked at my friends, who apparently hadn’t noticed our interaction.
“Did she seem weird to you just now?” I asked.
“Not really. Why?” Logan replied, but my gut said otherwise.
“I’m not sure.”
I decided to follow the said gut, which rarely lied to me, and left the table. At the bar, a waitress told me a woman matching Hazel’s description had left the restaurant.
What the hell?!
I exited the building, and a chilly breeze hit my face. I scanned the area and, after a few minutes of searching, spotted a dark figure at the far end of the restaurant’s park, near the beach. I approached.
Suddenly, I froze at the sight before me, all the blood draining from my face. Hazel was sitting on a bench, her dress pulled up, a needle in her thigh. Panic surged through every inch of me. My body moved instinctively. I ran to her and dropped to my knees in front of her. Her face was pale, eyes closed. She wasn’t unconscious, but she was extremely weak, her body barely showing any movement, and her breathing shallow and erratic.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
I tried to ignore all the alarms screaming at me and assess the situation. I wrapped my jacket around her shoulders. Her eyes slowly opened, and dread washed over her face.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad,” she begged, pain in her voice. I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of her mouth.
“Hazel, how can I be mad? There’s a needle sticking out of you.” I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid I would break her fragile body.
“I... I forgot. Back home... Like an idiot. I forgot to tell you,” she muttered, struggling to form words. I put my hands on her forearms, holding her upright. She was so cold.
“I’m... allergic.” I froze. “To peaches.”
Peaches?! What peaches? And then it clicked. The cake. It had a peach filling. I didn’t know, because she didn’t tell me. That’s why the guilt.
“Why didn’t you say something at the table?” My voice wavered, pain seeping in. I wasn’t hurt by the situation—I was hurt for her. For this girl, who had endured so much in her life that silence felt safer than asking for help.
“I didn’t...” She tried to control her breathing, eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t want to ruin this night for you. For them.” It felt like she had physically punched me.
I would have gotten mad. At her. At her stupidity. But all I could form was a soundlessHazel,launched into the thin air as a tear slipped down her cheek. I brushed it off softly and cupped her cheek.
