Chapter 11 Charlotte
"You're staring at my butt."
Miles's laugh echoed across the empty river path, startled and delighted. "I am absolutely not."
"You absolutely are. I can feel it."
"I'm admiring your form," he corrected, pulling even with me. "There's a difference."
"Uh-huh." I shot him a sideways glance, my lips twitching. "Keep your eyes on the path, Cameron."
"But the path isn't nearly as interesting."
The morning was perfect, one of those crystalline late-autumn days where the air tasted like possibility.
Early sun filtered through the bare trees, painting golden stripes across the packed earth.
Frost sparkled on the grass like scattered diamonds, and our breath puffed out in little clouds that dissolved into the cold air.
And Miles was running. Actually running, beside me, his stride careful but confident, his breathing steady. The physical therapist had emphasized gait training, coordinated movement, and maintaining cardiovascular health.
To me, it was simpler than that. It was getting him outside, into the light, moving with purpose beside someone who loved him.
"So," he said between breaths, "this is the famous Charlotte Huston pace? The one that won the regional championship?"
"It was the 400-meter, not the regional championship—"
"Close enough."
"And I'm pacing you, you ingrate. This is strategic slowness."
"Strategic slowness." He grinned, his eyes crinkling. "Is that what they call it when you get old and slow?"
"I am not old!" I bumped my shoulder against his, feeling the solid warmth of him through our running jackets. "I am experienced. And I could still smoke you, Cameron."
"Big talk from the woman currently being matched by a man with a neurodegenerative disease."
"You're not matching me. I'm letting you keep up."
"Keep telling yourself that."
I laughed, the sound bursting out of me, joyous and free in the morning air. This was what we were fighting for, not a life without illness, but a life full of moments like this. Teasing, striving, sharing the fresh morning air while he made terrible jokes.
We slowed to a walk at the halfway point, both of us breathing harder. Miles reached for my hand, not for support, just because he wanted to hold it, and I felt that familiar flutter in my chest, the one that never seemed to fade, no matter how many times he touched me.
"You know," he said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my palm, "I never thought I'd be grateful for physical therapy."
"Because of the health benefits?"
"Because it gave me an excuse to watch you in running tights."
I shoved his shoulder, laughing. "You're terrible."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it. There's a difference."
He stopped walking, turning to face me. The morning light caught his eyes, turning them amber and gold. His free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek with that slight tremor I'd learned to love rather than fear.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For this. For making me come out here." He paused, searching for words. "For making me feel like myself again."
My heart clenched. "You've always been yourself, Miles."
"Not like this." He leaned forward and kissed me, soft and sweet, right there on the empty path with the frost sparkling around us. "Not for a long time."
When we pulled apart, I kept my forehead pressed to his, breathing him in. Cedar and cold air and something that was just Miles.
"We should keep moving," I murmured. "Before you stiffen up."
"Romantic."
"Practical, wouldn’t want to carry you home."
"You think you could?"
"Impossible, though I’d try." I kissed him once more, quick and light, then stepped back. "Come on, old man. Let's see what you've got."
We picked up the pace again, settling into an easy rhythm. The path curved along the river, the water glinting silver in the early light. No other runners, no cyclists, no one but us and the birdsong and the quiet morning world.
The morning was so beautiful, and the thought came to my head, how I would’ve wished to spend time with Miles like this, and now I was here. With him.
"Okay, hotshot," I said, picking up my pace slightly, pulling half a step ahead. "Race you to the big oak."
"You're going to lose."
"Doubtful."
"I've been sandbagging this whole time."
"Sure you have."
A real, full smile broke across his face. It transformed him, erasing years of worry and pain, leaving behind the ghost of the boy I'd fallen in love with under an oak tree fifteen years ago.
"You're on," he said.
He surged forward, pulling even with me. For a moment, we were side by side, matched stride for stride, both of us grinning like idiots. The cold air burned my lungs in the best way. The world felt infinite and possible.
Then Miles turned his head to look at me, his smile brilliant, his hazel eyes lit with pure, triumphant mischief.
"Still slow!" he called over his shoulder, starting to pull ahead.
That's when I saw it.
It came from the cross street to our right, a silver blur ignoring the stop sign entirely, moving too fast. The driver's head was tilted down, a pale glow illuminating their face.
Time didn't slow down. It fractured.
"MILES!"
The scream tore out of me, raw and primal. His smile vanished. His head started to turn toward the street, his body beginning to pivot.
"What—"
The impact stole the rest of his words.
The sound was the worst thing I'd ever heard, a sickening thud of metal meeting flesh and bone at speed. Not a dramatic crash. A brutal, simple punctuation to that morning.
His body was flung sideways, a ragdoll with no strings, hitting the hood with a crumpling impact before sliding off to land on the pavement with a dreadful, lifeless stillness.
"No." The word was a whisper, a denial to the universe. "No, no, no, no!!"
My legs were moving before my brain caught up. Running, but it felt like wading through concrete, like the air had turned to syrup.
"MILES!"
I reached him, skidding to my knees on the rough pavement. It bit through my running tights. I didn't feel it. All sensation was concentrated in my eyes, witnessing the horror before me.
He was unconscious. A trickle of blood traced a path from his hairline down his temple, vivid red against ashen skin. His right arm, the one that had been trembling with life just minutes ago, lay twisted at an angle that made my stomach lurch.
"Miles, can you hear me?" My voice was high, frantic. "Miles!"
Airway, breathing, circulation. The nurse's mantra surfaced through the tsunami of panic. My hands went to his neck, finding a pulse… thready and rapid, but present.
"You're okay," I whispered, tears already streaming. "You're going to be okay. Stay with me."
A car door slammed. The driver, a young woman, maybe twenty-two, her face white with shock, stumbled toward us. Her phone was still clutched in her hand.
"Oh my god, oh my god, I didn't see him, I didn't see the stop sign, I was just—"
"Call 911!" I screamed at her. "Now! Tell them pedestrian trauma, unconscious, possible head and spinal. River path at Maple. NOW!"
She fumbled with her phone, hands shaking violently.
I turned back to Miles, my hands moving to stabilize his head. "Don't you dare," I told him, my voice cracking. "Don't you dare do this to me. Not now. Not when we just—"
I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't acknowledge everything we'd finally built, everything we were finally becoming.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, leaning close to his face. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I suggested the run, I made you race, I—"
His hand twitched.
I froze, hardly daring to breathe.
"Miles?"
His fingers moved again, just slightly, a faint tremor that could have been his Parkinson's or could have been something else entirely.
"I'm here," I said, gripping his hand. "I'm right here. Can you hear me? Squeeze if you can hear me."
Nothing. His face remained slack, his breathing shallow.
"Please," I whispered against his forehead. "Please fight. You don't get to give up on us now. I beg you..."
The sirens started in the distance, faint at first, then growing louder. The driver was sobbing into her phone, giving disjointed directions. The sun kept shining, obscenely cheerful. The frost kept sparkling.
My mind raced through the clinical possibilities, each one worse than the last. Head trauma. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. Spinal injury. I couldn’t think straight.
I was trying to keep him steady. I wanted to hug him, but feared it could hurt him. All I could do was cry and pray.
"Stay with me," I murmured, my tears falling onto his skin. "Please stay with me."
The paramedics arrived in a blur of uniforms and urgent voices. Suddenly, there were hands everywhere, professional and efficient, asking me to step back.
"Ma'am, we need access—"
"He moved." I couldn't let go of his hand. "His hand moved. He's in there."
"We need you to—"
"I'm a nurse." The words came out sharp, defensive. "I know what I'm doing. His pulse is thready but present, breathing is shallow, possible head trauma and fractures to the right arm. He has Parkinson's disease, early onset, he's on carbidopa-levodopa, timing is critical for his doses…"
One of the paramedics met my eyes, his expression shifting from impatience to understanding. "Okay. We've got him. Are you family?"
"Yes." The lie came automatically. Or maybe it wasn't a lie anymore. "I'm coming with him."
They loaded him onto a stretcher, strapping him down with practiced efficiency. I followed them to the ambulance, climbing in before anyone could tell me otherwise.
The doors slammed shut. The siren wailed. The beautiful morning disappeared behind us, replaced by the harsh fluorescent light of the ambulance interior and the steady beep of monitors.
I held his hand the entire time.
"Fight," I whispered, watching his face for any sign of consciousness. "You fight for us. You hear me?"
The paramedic across from me was talking into a radio, relaying information to the hospital. I caught fragments, trauma team, neurology consult, ETA six minutes.
Six minutes. An eternity.
Miles's fingers twitched again in mine.
"That's it," I breathed, squeezing back. "That's it. Stay with me. Just stay with me."
His eyes didn't open. His face didn't change. But I could have sworn, I could have sworn I felt the faintest pressure of his fingers against mine.
A squeeze. Barely there, but real.
I'm here, it seemed to say. I'm still here.
I pressed my lips to his hand, holding it close.
"I'm not going anywhere," I promised him. "No matter what happens. I'm not going anywhere."
The ambulance screamed through the streets, and I held onto him with everything I had, and somewhere beneath the fear and the guilt and the desperate prayer, a single thought burned bright and fierce:
He had squeezed my hand.
He was still fighting.
And so would I.