Chapter 27
Stella:
My phone buzzed again as I stood outside the restaurant, Noah's voicemail greeting still ringing in my ears.
Zoe Carter: Stella? Is he there? I'm starting to get worried.
I typed back quickly: Let me check. He might have fallen asleep on my couch. I'll call you in a few minutes.
When I returned to the table, my mother took one look at my face and frowned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said, too quickly. "Just a work thing. Actually, I'm so sorry, but I need to get back. There's an issue with one of my research projects that I need to handle."
My father's expression was sympathetic, but my mother looked disappointed. "Can't it wait? We so rarely get to spend time together."
"I'm really sorry, Mom. Dad. I promise we'll do this again soon."
They insisted on paying the bill, and my mother made me promise to call her tomorrow. I agreed to everything, barely listening, my mind already racing ahead to my apartment.
The moment I was in my car, I tried calling Noah again. Straight to voicemail.
The drive back felt endless. By the time I pulled into my parking garage, my hands were shaking.
I took the stairs two at a time. My keys slipped twice before I managed to unlock the door.
"Noah?" I called out, rushing inside.
The living room was empty.
"Noah?"
I pushed open the bedroom door and my heart stopped.
Noah was lying on the floor beside the bed, his body crumpled at an awkward angle, his face deathly pale and slick with sweat. His phone lay a few feet away, screen dark.
For one horrible moment, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
I dropped to my knees beside him, my fingers automatically going to his neck to check for a pulse. It was there, thank god, but his breathing was shallow and his skin felt clammy under my touch.
"Noah." I shook his shoulder gently. "Noah, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
My phone was in my hand before I'd consciously decided to call 911. I gave the operator my address, described his condition with a clinical detachment that didn't match the panic clawing at my chest.
"Is he breathing normally?" the operator asked.
I looked down at Noah's chest, watching it rise and fall in uneven intervals. "No. It's shallow. Irregular."
"Any known medical conditions? Allergies?"
Allergies. The word made my stomach drop. I glanced frantically around the room—the wrapper from the bread I'd given him was on my nightstand, but it looked barely touched. Only a few bites taken, the rest still wrapped up beside an empty water bottle.
The bread. I'd grabbed it from the kitchen while my parents were distracted this morning, some artisanal loaf I'd bought from the farmers market last week. I'd just shoved it into his hands in the closet without a second thought, without checking the label, without asking if he had any allergies.
He must have waited until after we left the apartment to actually eat it—probably didn't want to risk making noise while my parents were still here.
"Oh god," I whispered.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?"
"I don't know," I said, my voice shaking. "The bread I gave him—it was from a farmers market. There might have been something in it. Nuts, maybe. I didn't check—"
The operator's tone sharpened. "Does he have an EpiPen?"
"I don't know. I don't—" My hands were trembling as I checked his pockets, finding only his wallet. His phone was out of reach. "I don't think so."
"The paramedics are three minutes away. Stay with him and keep monitoring his breathing."
Those three minutes felt like three hours.
I knelt beside Noah on my bedroom floor, one hand on his chest to feel each shallow breath, the other holding his wrist to track his pulse.
This was my fault. I'd given him that bread without even thinking to ask about allergies. Without checking the label.
"Come on," I whispered, my thumb tracing circles on the inside of his wrist. "Stay with me. Please stay with me."
His eyelids fluttered but didn't open.
When the knock finally came at my door, I nearly sobbed with relief.
---
The emergency room was a blur of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. I sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, watching doctors and nurses rush past.
They'd let me ride in the ambulance. I'd claimed to be his emergency contact without hesitation.
The paramedics had administered epinephrine the moment they'd arrived. I'd watched Noah's breathing ease almost immediately. But they'd still rushed him away the moment we'd reached the hospital.
That had been forty-five minutes ago.
My phone buzzed. Zoe.
Zoe Carter: Meeting finally over. What's going on? Is Noah okay?
My fingers trembled as I typed back.
Me: He's at St. Claire General. Allergic reaction. He's stable now.
Zoe Carter: WHAT? What happened? I can't leave Seattle until tomorrow. Is he okay???
Me: The bread I gave him had peanuts. He didn't know his allergy was severe. Doctors gave him epinephrine. He's responding well.
Zoe Carter: Oh my god. Stella, I'm booking the first flight back.
Zoe Carter: Can you stay with him? Please? I can't get there until at least 6am tomorrow.
Me: Of course. I'm not leaving.
"Family of Noah Carter?"
I stood up. A doctor in blue scrubs approached.
"I'm Dr. Patel," she said. "You're his...?"
"Friend. His sister is out of town on business. She can't get back until tomorrow morning. How is he?"
"He's stable. We administered epinephrine and antihistamines. It was definitely anaphylaxis triggered by peanut exposure." Dr. Patel consulted her tablet. "According to his medical history, he had a mild reaction as a child, but allergies can suddenly become severe in adulthood. This was accidental exposure?"
"Yes." The word came out hoarse. "I gave him bread this morning. I didn't know it had peanuts."
Dr. Patel's expression softened. "Cross-contamination with peanuts is common in artisanal bakeries." She paused. "You found him when you did. If you'd been much later, this could have been worse."
My legs suddenly felt unsteady. I sank back into the plastic chair.
"Can I see him?"
"Room 4, down the hall on your left."
I found him propped up in a hospital bed, an IV in his arm and a pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. His color had improved, though he still looked pale and exhausted.
His eyes found mine the moment I stepped through the door.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough.
"Hey." I moved to the chair beside his bed. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." He managed a weak smile. "But alive, so that's a plus."
I couldn't return the smile. Couldn't do anything but stare at the IV in his arm, the hospital bracelet around his wrist, the oxygen monitor beeping steadily beside his bed.
"I'm so sorry," I said.
This pattern of him getting hurt because of me…
"So," he said, and there was a hint of his usual teasing tone back in his voice, though it sounded forced. "Does this mean you're going to take responsibility for me, Professor Morrison?"