Chapter 34 Charlie #2
I brush my teeth and attempt to tame my hair into a messy bun, deciding that's as good as it's going to get today. When I emerge from the bathroom, Bash is waiting by the door, scrolling through his phone.
"Ready?" he asks, looking up.
"Ready," I confirm, slipping my hand into his.
We head downstairs, and I'm immediately greeted by my sister's excited squeal from the kitchen.
"She lives!" she announces dramatically, rushing over to hug me. "God, Charlie, you scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry about that," I mumble against her shoulder. "Didn't mean to ruin dinner."
"Please," she scoffs, pulling back to examine me. "Like I care about dinner when my sister's throat is closing up." Her eyes narrow as she takes in my appearance. "You look suspiciously happy for someone who almost died yesterday."
I feel my cheeks warm. "I'm just glad to be up and around."
Emily's gaze bounces between Bash and me, her eyebrows arching with unspoken suspicion.
"Mmhmm." She pivots, gesturing us toward the kitchen, her slippers padding against the hardwood.
"Well, Mom and Dad went out real fast, and we've been instructed to decorate cookies and stay put.
" Over her shoulder, she adds, "Oh, and there's a pot of mom's soup simmering on the stove if you’re hungry. "
"Are they at the Harpers?" I ask, suddenly concerned.
Emily and Bash exchange a look.
"Yes." Bash says carefully.
His tone makes me pause. "Do you think last night was on purpose?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But it was strange that Mrs. Harper specifically told you it was safe, and Ethan and Olivia seemed—"
"Not surprised," I finish, remembering the way they both had watched me as I started coughing.
"We'll figure it out," Emily says firmly. "But right now, we have cookies to decorate, and I've been waiting all day for this." We head toward the kitchen. "Bash was a nervous wreck, by the way. Paced so much I thought he'd wear a hole in the floor."
"I was not a nervous wreck," he protests, following us. "I was... vigilantly concerned."
"He checked your breathing every twenty minutes," Emily stage-whispers. "It was adorable."
I glance back at Bash. My heart swells with something that feels dangerously close to love.
"Come on," I say, squeezing his hand. "Let's see how good you are at handling a bag of royal icing."
The kitchen is a disaster zone of baking ingredients, icing, sprinkles, and cookie crumbs by the time we finish the cookie decorating.
Emily's creations are wild explosions of color—her snowman has a rainbow scarf and what appears to be a mohawk.
Mine are neat but basic, focusing on traditional colors and patterns.
Bash's, surprisingly, look like they belong in a bakery window, precise, artistic, and somehow both playful and elegant.
"I had no idea you were secretly a cookie artist," I say, leaning against his shoulder as we survey our work.
"Man of many talents," he says with a wink. "You haven't even seen my origami skills yet."
"Oh please," Emily snorts, "next you'll tell us you can juggle flaming torches while reciting Shakespeare."
"Hamlet, Act Three, Scene One," Bash says without missing a beat, pretending to toss imaginary torches. "'To be or not to be'—oops, almost dropped one."
I'm laughing when the front door opens, bringing my parents' voices. They look tired as they stomp snow from their boots on the front porch doormat before coming inside.
"Charlotte!" Mom calls, spotting me and rushing over. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?" She cups my face, examining me with the practiced eye of a mother who's nursed me through countless childhood illnesses.
"I'm fine, Mom. Really." I let her fuss for a moment, knowing it makes her feel better.
Dad joins us, his usual composed demeanor slightly rumpled. He wraps me in a tight hug, and I feel like I'm ten years old again, believing my father can fix anything wrong in the world.
"We love you, kiddo," he murmurs against my hair.
"I love you guys too," I say, my voice muffled against his sweater. "But I'm okay, I promise."
Mom notices our cookies and clasps her hands together. "Oh, these are wonderful! What a perfect distraction."
"We need impartial judges," Emily announces, nudging our parents toward the kitchen island. "You don't know whose is whose, so it's a blind test."
Dad adjusts his glasses, assuming his best judge persona. "The court is now in session for the Whitaker Family Cookie Competition."
Mom looks over each set of cookies. A snowflake, snowman, and stocking and Christmas tree are all plated on three separate plates. "We'll judge each contestant's full collection."
They both study each set with comical seriousness, whispering to each other and making exaggerated thinking faces. Emily fidgets beside me, while Bash looks amused by the whole production.
"After careful deliberation," Dad finally announces, "we declare Set C the winner."
"That's mine!" Bash says, pumping his fist in mock triumph.
Emily gasps dramatically. "My own parents! Betrayed by blood!" She clutches her chest. "Twenty-seven years of devotion, and you choose an outsider's cookies over mine?"
"Sorry, honey," Mom laughs. "But those little buttons on the snowman were just too perfect."
"I used edible silver dust on the snowflake," Bash admits, looking pleased but slightly embarrassed by the attention.
"So that's what that was?" I raise my eyebrows. "Who even are you?"
"I have a niece," he shrugs. "You pick things up."
Emily's feigned outrage dissolves into laughter, and soon we're all chuckling. The warm moment of normalcy feels precious after yesterday's drama.
But the laughter fades as Mom and Dad exchange a look—the kind parents share when they need to discuss something serious and the atmosphere shifts.
"So…" Dad says, clearing his throat. "We had a very interesting conversation with the Harpers."
I feel Bash tense beside me, his hand finding mine and placing it on the kitchen island.
"And?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know.
Mom moves to face us on the other side of the island, her expression grave. "Olivia confessed to adding shrimp bouillon to the lasagna."
My stomach drops.
"She what?" Emily and Bash scream in unison.
"Apparently," Dad continues, his voice barely containing his anger. "Ethan had mentioned to her that you have a 'mild' shellfish allergy. She decided to sprinkle bouillon on top of the entire dish."
"But—why?" The question comes out small, confused. I understand disliking someone, even being jealous, but deliberately causing them harm?
"She claimed she thought it would just give you a slight reaction—make you uncomfortable, maybe cause you to leave early." Mom's hands are clasped so tightly her knuckles are white. "Her exact words were, 'I didn't know she was going to react that badly.'"
I feel sick, remembering the terrifying sensation of my throat closing, the panic as I struggled to breathe. Bash's hand tightens around mine.
"The Harpers are absolutely furious and saddened by the whole situation," Dad says. "Mrs. Harper was in tears, Mr. Harper could barely speak, he was so angry. And Ethan—"
"Ethan was high last night," Mom cuts in. "That's why he was acting so strangely. He claims he had no idea what Olivia was planning."
Emily makes a disbelieving noise. "Convenient."
"Actually," Dad says, "I believe him. He was absolutely distraught when he realized what had happened. He broke off the engagement on the spot."
"He did?" I'm genuinely surprised. Ethan has always chosen the path of least resistance in life.
"Olivia is no longer welcome at the Harpers'," Mom says. "Or in our home, obviously. I told Barbara I don't even want to see her face again."
"I informed her that we could press charges for reckless endangerment, possibly even attempted assault," Dad adds, his lawyer voice emerging. "Her little 'prank' could have killed you if we hadn't had your EpiPen."
The thought makes my skin crawl. I've lived with my allergy for years, careful but never truly afraid. Now, I feel a new vulnerability—the awareness that something so small could be weaponized against me.
I look at Bash and see barely contained fury in his eyes. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking along it. He's radiating a dangerous energy I've never felt from him before.
"Bash," I say softly, squeezing his hand.
He meets my gaze, and I watch him struggle to control his anger. "If she had—" he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "If you had—"
"But I didn't," I remind him gently. "I'm right here."
He nods once, sharp and tight, but I can still feel the tension in him.
"Are you pressing charges?" Emily asks.
Dad sighs. "We're considering it. The Harpers asked for a little time first—they want to handle some things within the family."
"That's their way of saying they want to make sure this doesn't become public," Mom explains. "The Harpers have their social position to consider."
"Of course they do," Emily mutters, rolling her eyes.
I stand up, needing to move, to process. "I think I need some air."
My parents exchange concerned glances.
"I'm fine," I insist. "I just need to clear my head. Bash, will you join me please?"
He's on his feet immediately. “Right behind you, Shortcake.”
I cross to my parents and wrap them both in a hug. "Thank you. For everything."
"We love you, Charlotte," Mom says, holding me tight.
"So much," Dad adds.
I nod, unable to speak past the sudden lump in my throat. Bash places his hand lightly on my lower back, a steady presence as we head toward the back door.
"Coats," Emily calls, tossing them to us. "Don't need another medical emergency."
We both grab a coat from the rack and slide the door open.
The cold air hits me like a slap when we step outside, but it's clarifying. The sky is darkening already, winter sunset painting the snow in shades of purple and blue.
We walk to the edge of the porch. I brush snow off the railing and then lean on it.
"I can't believe she did that," I finally say. "I mean, I knew she didn't like me, but to deliberately—" I shake my head, unable to complete the thought.
"If I ever see her again—" Bash starts, his voice tight.
"You won't do anything," I cut him off. "Because you're not that person, and she's not worth it."
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "She could have killed you, Charlie."
"I know." The reality of it settles over me, heavy and cold. "But she didn't. I'm still here."
Bash turns to me, his eyes intense in the fading light.
"When I got back with your EpiPen and saw that your lips were starting to turn blue—" He breaks off, swallowing hard.
"I've never been so scared in my life. Not when I shattered my knee, not when I was caught in that avalanche in France.
Nothing compares to watching you—" He squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't finish the sentence.
I take his hand between both of mine. His fingers are cold, and I rub them gently.
"I'm still here," I repeat. "And I'm not going anywhere."
He's quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. Then he says, "I need to tell you something, Charlie."
My heart instantly picks up speed. "Okay."
"This hasn't been fake for me. Not for a single moment since we got here."
"I know," I whisper.
"No, you don't," he says, his voice low and serious. "I need you to understand. When you asked me to do this with you, I thought maybe we could start over. That I could show you I'm not the guy you thought I was. But this—us—it's become so much more than that."
The intensity in his eyes makes it hard to breathe for entirely different reasons than last night. His blue irises darkening to a stormy, electric shade that feels like it’s aimed straight through me.
"Last night, I realized something." He takes a deep breath. "I realized I don't want to pretend anymore," he continues, stepping closer. "I want this—us—to be real. I want to be your actual boyfriend, not just someone playing a part for your family."
"Bash, I—"
"You don't have to say anything," he interrupts, his thumb brushing my cheek. "I know it's fast and complicated with work, and I'm not asking you to make any declarations. I'm just telling you where I stand."
A laugh bubbles up, unexpected and light. "Will you let me finish?"
He presses his lips together, suddenly looking like a scolded child. It's endearing in a way I never expected.
"I want that too," I whisper.
The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant, warming me despite the cold.