Chapter 33 Bash
Chapter thirty-three
Bash
The hospital lights blur past us as Richard wheels Charlie out through the sliding doors.
She looks small in the wheelchair, a blanket tucked around her legs, her face still paler than normal despite the doctor's assurance that she's stable now.
Her auburn hair spills over her shoulders, messy from the hours spent in the hospital bed.
I watch as she fidgets with the hem of her plaid pajama top, a small smile finally returning to her face. Her mom and Emily went back to the house during our hospital stay, and her mom brought back a soft blue set from Charlie’s suitcase.
I didn't leave her side all night. Not when they monitored her vitals hourly. Not when she drifted in and out of sleep while the antihistamines worked through her system. Not even when Margaret urged me to get some rest in one of the waiting room chairs.
"You're good to go, Ms. Whitaker," the nurse says, handing her discharge papers to Richard. "Just make sure to follow up with your regular doctor when you get back home."
Charlie nods, looking exhausted but much better than last night. I shudder at the memory of her face swelling, her desperate gasps for air.
"Let's get you home, sweetheart," Margaret says, squeezing Charlie's shoulder.
Outside, the Colorado morning greets us with pristine snow and impossibly blue skies. The sun reflects off the white landscape, almost blinding in its intensity. Under different circumstances, I'd be itching to hit the slopes on a perfect day like this.
Richard brings the SUV around, and I help Charlie into the backseat before sliding in beside her. She immediately leans against me, her head finding my shoulder as naturally as if it belongs there. The scent of her strawberry shampoo envelops me and I breathe it in.
"Tired?" I ask softly, my voice rough from lack of sleep.
"Mmm," she murmurs, eyes already closing. "The medicine makes me so groggy."
I adjust my arm around her, pulling her closer, needing to feel her warm and breathing against me.
The memory of last night's panic claws at my chest again.
I've faced death on the slopes—nearly died when a botched jump sent me into a ravine three years ago.
But watching Charlie struggle to breathe, seeing terror in her eyes as her throat closed. .. nothing has ever frightened me more.
As Richard navigates the winding mountain roads back toward their vacation home, my mind circles back to the same question that's been haunting me all night: how the hell did shellfish get into the food?
Mrs. Harper had specifically assured Charlie there was no seafood in anything she served. I remember the conversation clearly—Charlie politely asking about the ingredients, Mrs. Harper waving away her concerns with a "Don't worry, dear, I know about your allergy. Everything's safe."
Yet within seconds, Charlie was coughing, her skin erupting in angry red hives and her throat closing off.
It doesn't make sense. And something about Ethan and Olivia’s behavior all evening felt off. The way he kept glancing at Charlie throughout dinner, and Olivia’s fake conversation. How they both seemed almost unsurprised when she first started coughing.
No. That's crazy. Even Ethan wouldn't deliberately—
"Are you doing okay back there, Sebastian?" Richard's voice breaks through my thoughts, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I straighten slightly, careful not to disturb Charlie. "Yeah, I think so. Just... processing everything."
"First time seeing someone have an allergic reaction?"
"Yeah," I admit. "Charlie had mentioned she was allergic to shellfish, but she said it was mild. Not life-threatening." I look down at her sleeping form, her breathing now steady and normal. "That sure looked life-threatening to me."
Richard nods grimly. "The doctor said the same thing you're thinking. Food allergies can worsen over time, especially if you don't have regular exposure. What might have been a mild reaction years ago can suddenly become anaphylaxis."
"She could have died," I say, the words barely audible.
"But she didn't," Richard says firmly. "Thanks in no small part to you, son. That was quite a sprint you made back to the house."
I hadn't even thought about it at the time—just knew I needed to get to her EpiPen as fast as humanly possible. My knee throbs at the memory. The cold and sudden impact of running full-tilt through snow aggravated it badly.
Worth it though. I'd tear the damn thing to shreds if it meant keeping her safe.
"Anyone would have done the same," I mutter.
Richard's eyes find mine in the mirror again, his gaze knowing. "Not everyone."
I say nothing and just pull Charlie a little closer.
"You care about her," Richard continues. It's not a question.
"I do," I admit, my voice low to avoid waking her. "More than I expected to."
He nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns his attention back to the winding road ahead.
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable.
Through the window, the landscape unfolds in winter splendor—snow-laden pines, jagged peaks silhouetted against the sky, occasional glimpses of frozen streams. It's the kind of view people pay thousands to experience.
I hardly notice any of it. My attention is fixed on the rise and fall of Charlie's chest, on the warmth of her body against mine.
Alive.
Safe.
"I've known the Harpers for thirty years," Richard says suddenly, breaking the silence. "We've spent holidays together since the kids were in diapers. Ethan and Charlie practically grew up together."
I tense slightly at Ethan's name.
"I never understood what Charlie saw in him romantically," he continues, his tone casual but his words deliberate. "He was always... selfish. Even as a child. The kind who'd break his toys rather than share them."
My jaw tightens as I think about Ethan's smug face, the proprietary way he'd looked at Charlie at dinner, even with Olivia next to him.
"That lasagna was strange," Richard adds, almost as an afterthought. "Patricia usually makes it with the same recipe every year. Never had shellfish in it before."
The implication hangs in the air between us. I glance at Margaret, who's been quietly looking out the passenger window. She turns slightly, meeting my eyes with a hard look that tells me she's thinking the same thing.
"You don't think..." I begin, then stop myself. It sounds insane when I try to say it aloud.
"I don't know what to think," Richard says evenly. "But I know my daughter has carried an EpiPen since she was fourteen, and in all these years, she's never once had a reaction this severe."
Charlie stirs against me, mumbling something incoherent before settling again. I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in her strawberry scent.
"We're almost home," Margaret says, reaching back to pat Charlie's knee. "She'll feel better after she gets some real rest."
The SUV turns onto the private road leading up to the Whitaker property.
Fresh snow has fallen overnight, covering our tracks from yesterday.
Everything looks new, pristine. I wish I could feel the same way—cleansed and renewed—but anger simmers under my skin, growing hotter with each passing minute.
If Ethan had anything to do with Charlie's reaction...
"We're here," Richard announces, pulling up to the house. "Sebastian, can you help Charlie inside while I grab her things?"
"Of course."
I kiss the top of her head and place my hand on hers.
"Hey Shortcake."
Her eyes flutter open, hazel irises finding mine, momentarily confused before recognition sets in.
"We're home," I tell her softly.
She yawns, stretching slightly. "Did I sleep the whole way?"
"You needed it." I brush a strand of auburn hair from her face, allowing my fingers to linger against her skin. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," she says, attempting a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Still tired though."
"Let's get you inside."
I help her from the car, keeping a supportive arm around her waist as we navigate the freshly shoveled path to the front door. She leans heavily against me, and I adjust my stride to match her slower pace.
"Thank you," she murmurs. "For everything."
I stop us at the bottom of the porch steps, turning to face her fully. Her eyes are glassy with medication and fatigue, but they hold mine steadily.
"Charlie, I..." The words catch in my throat. There's so much I want to say—about how terrified I was, about how I never want to let her out of my sight again, about how what started as a pretend relationship has become the most real thing in my life.
Instead, I simply pull her into my arms, holding her against my chest, my face buried in her hair. She melts into the embrace, her arms circling my waist.
"I know," she whispers against my sweater. "Me too."
For now, it's enough. We'll have time for words later. Time for sorting through everything that's happened between us, for figuring out what comes next.
But standing here with her, alive and warm in my arms, I make a silent promise to myself: I won't waste this second chance. Whatever it takes, whatever she needs, I'll be there.
And if Ethan Harper deliberately put shellfish in that lasagna? Well, that's a conversation for another day—one that won't end well for him.