17. Tess #2
Seconds later, medical personnel surround me. They ease me onto a gurney, and something cold pushes into my arm—an IV line. Oxygen flows through a mask placed over my face, cool and metallic-tasting. A monitor beeps somewhere to my left, measuring the frantic rhythm of my heart.
"BP's dropping," someone says. "Let's get another dose of epinephrine on board."
Charlie hovers at the edge of this choreographed emergency, his face pale and drawn. When they ask him to step out, he refuses in such a tone that no one challenges him again.
Another injection burns through my veins. Gradually, mercifully, my airways begin to expand. The vice grip around my chest loosens one notch, then another. I drag in a deeper breath, then another, each one less painful than the last.
"Much better," a doctor says, checking the monitors. "We'll keep you for observation. Anaphylaxis can have a biphasic response—symptoms can return even after the initial reaction appears to resolve."
Charlie's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "I'm staying right here."
No one argues.
They move me to a curtained bay in the emergency department. The urgency that marked my arrival ebbs away, replaced by the routine indifference of a busy ER. Nurses check my vitals with decreasing frequency. The doctor stops by once more, notes something in my chart, and disappears.
"You scared the hell out of me," Charlie says quietly when we're alone again. He sits beside my bed, rubbing his hand up and down my arm.
"Sorry," I manage, my voice rasping through a still-tender throat. "Not exactly the kind of morning I was looking forward to."
He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "I was terrified, Tess."
The raw emotion in his voice catches me off guard. Something shifts between us in that moment—something deeper than the connection we’ve already established the last few weeks.
"I still can’t believe the waitress told me there were no cashews in that granola," I whisper.
"I'm going to find out exactly what happened," he promises, a dangerous edge to his voice. "And make sure it never happens again."
Hours pass in the strange timelessness of hospital care.
My breathing improves, but the staff seems in no hurry to discharge me.
Charlie steps out occasionally to go to the bathroom or get more coffee.
He returns each time, settling back into the uncomfortable chair beside my bed as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
Eventually, a different doctor appears with discharge instructions. "You're fortunate," he says, reviewing my chart. "The reaction could have been much worse without the quick EpiPen administration. Always carry two auto-injectors from now on, and follow up with your allergist in Seattle."
"Is it safe for us to drive back today?" Charlie asks. "It's a four-hour trip."
The doctor hesitates. "I'd prefer she stay local tonight, but if you're determined to go, watch for any signs of returning symptoms—difficulty breathing, hives, swelling. If anything concerns you, don't wait. Find the nearest emergency room immediately."
Charlie's hand tightens around mine. "I'll make sure of it."
We stop by the hotel briefly and Charlie grabs our things. He also stops into the restaurant to tell them what happened. Apparently, the waitress was new and didn’t actually ask the kitchen about the ingredients in the granola. Charlie’s reaction to that was fierce, to say the least.
The drive back to Seattle feels eternal. Charlie frequently checks how I'm feeling. Each time, his eyes search my face with such intensity that I feel so bad I put him through this. But beyond exhaustion and a lingering soreness in my throat, I'm okay.
"Everything is going to be okay," I tell him somewhere past Ellensburg, the afternoon sun painting the hills in golden light. "I promise I'm not going to collapse on you."
"Humor me," he says, eyes flicking between me and the road. "I just need to keep asking.”
I laugh softly. "Thank you so much for being so amazing through all of this. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if I’d been alone."
"We’re not even going to think about that." He looks over at me briefly. "I’ve got to say, watching someone you care about struggle to breathe really clarifies your priorities."
Someone you care about. The words settle in my chest, warm and unexpected. I grab his hand and squeeze it tightly.
Seattle's skyline appears on the horizon as evening approaches. Charlie drives directly to his downtown penthouse, insisting that he is going to stay with me tonight but first he needs to pick up Hans and some clothes to change into.
"He's been alone all weekend," Charlie explains as we ride the private elevator to his floor. "The dog walker came by twice a day, but he'll be climbing the walls by now."
He opens up the door and the sound of nails skittering on hardwood draws my attention.
Hans races toward us, his entire body wiggling with joy. Charlie scoops him up, accepting enthusiastic face licks with good-natured complaints.
To my surprise, Hans squirms out of Charlie's arms and plants his front paws on my legs, his expression expectant. I scratch behind his ears, and he melts against me with a contented sigh.
"He likes you," Charlie observes. "Now we’ll just have to see what he thinks about Art."
"I worry about Art meeting Hans," I admit, watching the dachshund licking Charlie’s face again. "Art hasn't spent much time around dogs. He's... particular about his personal space."
Charlie raises an eyebrow. "Particular?"
"He once hissed at my neighbor's seven-year-old for trying to pick him up. The poor kid cried for ten minutes." I scratch Hans behind the ears, earning another happy wiggle. "Art likes things his way."
"So, what you’re telling me is, he's a cat," Charlie says with a grin.
"Yea, but not just any cat. He's a twenty-pound tuxedo cat with an attitude. I found him at a shelter five years ago, and he's ruled the roost ever since." I bite my lip, picturing Art's indignant expression when I left him alone this weekend. "I'm actually a little nervous about introducing them."
Charlie sets his overnight bag on the counter and crosses to the refrigerator. "Hans is good with other animals. He's more interested in people, honestly."
"I just hope Art minds his manners," I respond weakly, still petting the dog.
Charlie gathers a few things while I bond with Hans. “Thank you for staying with me tonight. I really don’t want to be alone after the day I’ve had.”
"Tess." He sets down his bag, crossing the room to take my face gently between his hands. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away from you tonight."
The intensity in his eyes leaves me speechless. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how much I’m getting used to spending time with him.
As we drive to my house, Hans curled contentedly in my lap, I steal glances at Charlie's profile. His jaw is set in determined lines, but exhaustion shows in the shadows beneath his eyes. He catches me looking and reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together on the console between us.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say, squeezing his hand. "Just...thank you. For everything today."
Charlie lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Let's make a deal. No more near-death experiences, and I'll keep being your hero as needed. Sound fair?"
I smile, feeling so much better after such a shitty day. "Sounds perfect."