My body is moving before I even think anything coherent. I ease her off the high-top stool, cradling her against my body. Her pulse is racing, and she’s far too warm.
I taste the taco and abruptly curse.
Pineapple.
She’s having an allergic reaction.
Pork mojo is usually marinated in orange juice, so I didn’t think anything of it, but Owen must have substituted pineapple in his recipe. It’s immediately obvious, woven in with the layers of cumin and lime.
My heart seizes with terror. Her flushed cheek presses againstmy chest as I turn her purse upside down, its contents tumbling to the floor. No EpiPen. Did she leave it in the car? I don’t remember seeing it. It’s a struggle to think in a straight line. I whirl around, finally spotting the server by the bar.
“Do you have an EpiPen?” I bark at him.
“Sir?”
“An EpiPen! She’s having an allergic reaction.”
“I don’t know—”
“Call 911.” The server stares, absolutely frozen. I’d shake him, but I’m too terrified to let go of Poppy. “Now!”
Owen skids out of the kitchen, hastily drying his hands with a dishcloth. “What’s going on?”
“You used pineapple juice in the pork marinade?” I fight to keep my voice even. “She’s allergic.”
The next moments are filled with chaos. Owen calls 911, rattling off the address, as the server races to find the first aid kit. I sink to the ground, holding Poppy in an iron grip, too afraid to move, to do anything but count each inhale and exhale. She’s breathing heavily, as if each rise of her chest is taking a massive amount of effort. It feels like an eternity before the paramedics arrive, but suddenly a man and a woman in navy uniforms are kneeling beside me. They pry me away from Poppy. It’s torture to let go. I curl my hands into fists, resisting the urge to snatch her back into my arms.
“Sir,” the man says, his voice calm but firm, “can you tell us what’s going on?”
“She’s allergic to pineapple,” I pant. Sweat drips down my temple. “Accidentally ingested it. Didn’t have her EpiPen.”
“Back up please,” the woman says as she uncaps a plastic cylinder. She plunges it into Poppy’s thigh in a smooth motion.
The panic eases, but only for a moment. They load Poppy onto a stretcher, carrying her down the steps to the waiting ambulance.
“Jack,” I hear her say, her voice small, plaintive, as she disappears from view. I blink hard, vision blurring. Fuck.
“I’m right behind you!” I call. I can’t tell if she hears me.
“I’m sorry,” Owen says by my shoulder. “Jack, I didn’t realize—”
“It was my fault.”
I should’ve asked. I should’ve fucking asked.
I toss Poppy’s things back into her purse, then race for my car. I reach the hospital as fast as I can, no doubt breaking several traffic laws in the process. At the doors to the emergency room, I rush inside, heart beating a million miles a minute. A nurse spots me and hurries over.
“They just brought in a woman with anaphylactic shock,” I burst out. “Poppy Winfield. Where is she? I have to be with her.”
“It’s going to be okay.” The nurse’s voice is steady. “Why don’t you come and sit?”
“I can’t—I need—”
“Sit,” she says again, not unkindly. “They’re getting her sorted out now. You can help me by telling us a little about her. What’s your relationship to her?”
“She’s my...”
She’s Poppy. My Poppy.
