God, I’m going to die.
As my throat tightens further, I can’t seem to talk anymore. I can’t find my voice to explain or direct them to the EpiPen I always carry. In a desperate attempt to communicate, I extend my left arm toward Oliver, my hand trembling. The silver, delicate medical alert bracelet on my wrist catches the light, the charm engraved with the wordsPeanut Allergy.
Oliver catches sight of the charm, and his eyes widen with realization. He takes my wrist and turns the charm, reading what is engraved on the back.
Carries EpiPen in purse.
“She’s allergic to peanuts. She has an EpiPen in her bag!” he shouts to Misha, who starts frantically searching through my backpack within seconds.
Misha’s hands tremble as he finally locates the auto-injector, but he hesitates.
Grey steps in, his movements steady and sure, not a smidge of panic to be found. He takes the EpiPen from Misha’s grasp, flips off the safety cap, and says in a calm, assertive voice, “Hold on, Amelia.”
He doesn’t hesitate to slam the injector against my thigh, ready to inject straight through my trousers. The click of the mechanism sounds impossibly loud in my ears. He holds it therefor a few crucial seconds while the epinephrine is delivered. The sharp sting of the needle is a minor discomfort compared to the tight grip of anaphylaxis around my throat.
As I wait for the medication to take effect, my vision narrows, the edges growing dark.
No, this can’t be it.
The fish.
I only rescued four of them.
The tense silence stretches, the guys hovering motionlessly.
After an agonizing few moments, the drug starts to work, and I lean my head back, gasping for air. My breathing is still labored, but gradually, the terrifying tightness begins to lessen. Grey holds eye contact with me and firmly grasps my shoulder, grounding me.
My hero with the scowling face.
I look up to find Oliver and Misha hovering close, their faces etched with worry, while Misha dials for an ambulance.
“Breathe, Amelia. Help is on the way,” Grey reassures, his usually detached demeanor now showing genuine concern.
I must look like shit if I’ve managed to crack Grey Donovan’s cold exterior.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to gasp out, the room spinning.
“Don’t talk, just breathe.” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency.
Oliver’s hand squeezes mine gently, and I glance over to find him beside me again. His eyes are brimming with tears as I finally manage to take deeper breaths.
I traumatized the poor guy.
Misha’s stern tone draws my attention away from Oliver. “Give her room to breathe!”
I see the blurry figures of people who have gathered to watch the spectacle of my near-death experience.
They will never want to have lunch with me again.
ELEVEN
The car cutsthrough the city’s buzz, the world outside blurring past us, but my mind is trapped in a loop, replaying that horrifying moment in the cafeteria. I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, and each breath a conscious effort to keep the car steady as we head to the hospital where Amelia was taken.
“I didn’t know,” Misha murmurs from the passenger seat for the hundredth time, his guilt palpable in the cramped space of the car. “I should have asked, should have checked…”
His words fade into the background noise of my own thoughts. My mind replays Amelia’s widening eyes, the unmistakable tint of panic as she gasped for air, each breath desperate.
I recall the worried murmurs of onlookers asking if she was okay, if they could help. But my focus had narrowed to her, to the desperate rise and fall of her chest, to her lips that began to take on a distressing shade of blue due to lack of oxygen.
