I’ve never slammed an EpiPen against someone’s thigh so hard in my life. And I’ve done it a few times before, having had a roommate in college who was as highly allergic to pickles as he was addicted to them.
He was too dumb to live. She was just fucking unlucky.
The click of the injector had been the most significant sound in the chaos, followed by the first faint whisper of air drawing back into her lungs.
“Breathe, Amelia.”
Saying it almost felt like a prayer as I had watched for that first small intake of air.
Oliver, sitting silently in the back seat until now, shifts uncomfortably. “I was pissed when you pushed for more beta testing even though we agreed not to,” he admits, his voice rough with emotion. “But now, I’m relieved. Relieved that we can make sure she’s okay. Which is so fucking wrong.”
He’s right.
In both regards.
There’s a grim satisfaction in knowing we can watch over her and make sure she’s fine. I know I said I didn’t care about her, but that was before I heard her whimpers and moans and before I saw her go down.
She could have fucking died right in front of us.
She really is like a Sim, clumsy and mindless, and somehow, I feel obligated to make sure she stays alive. I probably plugged into the world of The Sims for too many hours in my teens, taking virtual revenge on bullies, fulfilling dozens of career fantasies, andconfiguringthe woman of my dreams.
Oliver’s next words catch me off guard. “We’re not leaving her alone anymore,” he declares. “I saw how happy she was today, how she smiled listening to you guys bicker. She never smiles like that when she’s eating alone or grabbing her coffee. I’ve watched her enough to know.”
Misha’s laughter cuts through the tense air, though it lacks its usual levity. “What do you want us to do, adopt her?”
Why the hell not?
Where would we be if we hadn’t adopted each other?
I would work and sleep much better, knowing she isn’t at risk of burning the building down or choking on nuts.
I have to keep her away from any food I haven’t cooked or vetted myself.
I bet Elysium would ban peanuts from the cafeteria foods if we asked them to. If not, I have enough leverage to make them agree.
“Oliver’s right, we’re not backing off,” I grunt out, more to myself than to them.
Amelia’s panicked blue eyes, looking up at me like I was her lifeline, are etched into my mind. She looked at me as if I was her hero. No one has ever looked at me like that. It’s more the opposite, if I’m honest.
“She’s stuck with us, beta test or not,” I continue, surprising even myself with how certain I sound. “This girl isn’t made to be lonely.”
And I’m not made to leave her alone.
As the hospital comes into view, a resolve settles over me.
We’d stepped into her world just in time, and now, there is no stepping back.
If there isone thing in life you don’t want to do alone, it’s go to the hospital.
Walking out of there feels like leaving behind a small piece of my dignity. I’ve already had the pleasure of severe allergic reactions that landed me in the hospital three times before this, back home in London.
I was alone then too.
Not the first time, though. The first time it happened, Mother was up everyone’s asses to find out what was wrong with me. A Stanley couldn’t die because of a peanut. We’re born to die more prestigiously. Maybe in a private jet crash. Or at least from a heart attack while playing golf like my Uncle Spencer.
Not defeated by a nut.
But after it was clear that it was just my body wanting to kill me if I so much as looked at a peanut, she didn’t come the next two times it happened.
