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“I agree.”

Rosalie doesn’t say anything. But I know her preferences. I know almost everything about this woman. She always said Reno was too big and Tesoro was just right.

“Disneyland or DisneyWorld?” Again, Rosalie has an opinion on this. It’s possible Grammy is setting me up. She’s assisting, I’m getting the goal. I’ll take it.

“Grammy.” Rose tilts her head and huffs with her gentle scold. “Your food is going to get cold. So will Zev’s. Maybe save one question for after dinner.”

“Dearest, it’s a simple question. My food is fine.”

“Disneyland,” I say—with the correct answer—just before stuffing a bite of Grammy’s spaghetti into my mouth. It’s good—but it’s different than normal. And the small difference is making my tongue itch. I blink up, looking at Noreen. I know her recipe. I have her recipe… But something isn’t right. And with the realization, it hits me, not only does my tongue itch—it’s swelling, more and more by the second. “Uh—are there anchovies in this?”

Grammy nods. “I chopped a few into the sauce. I’m trying something new.”

“Huh. I knew something was different,” Rosalie says, taking another bite.

My tongue bulges in my mouth and then my lips begin to get inflamed. Dang.

Rosalie’s head tilts, her eyes narrowed as she looks at me. “Zev?”

My throat constricts like a rope has been tied around my esophagus, and I wheeze out a small cough. “I’m allergic.”

“Oh dear,” Noreen groans, scooting her chair from beneath the table and standing.

“Do you have meds? An EpiPen?” Rose asks.

I don’t. I’ve never needed one. I learned I was allergic after a food sensitivity test, and I’ve just always stayed away. I shake my head.

“Benadryl,” Rosalie says, staring at my face and standing. Her chair tips back on its side, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She walks over to a skinny cupboard in the kitchen, flinging open the door. “Grammy, do we have Benadryl?” She yanks one bottle of pills after another from the little cupboard, letting them fall onto the counter. One splats right into Grammy’s pot of sauce. But one glance back at me and she’s rifling through the cupboard again.

“I didn’t know. I—” Noreen stammers. “Zev⁠—”

“Iss oka—” I say, but the words don’t come out right. My tongue has doubled in size. I’m sure of it. My mouth, too. I touch a hand to my bottom lip. Oh boy. I must look like they’ve been injected with too much plumping solution.

“Claritin!” Rosalie shouts but drops it to the counter. “Nope, this is not a seasonal allergy.”

“Oh dear.” Noreen’s eyes lock on my face that’s swelling up like a water balloon.

Rosalie spins with Noreen’s fearful tone. The bottle of aspirin slips from her fingers and falls to the ground when she sees me.

Okay—so, it’s bad.

“Come on,” she says, charging toward me. “I’m taking you to the urgent care.”

Thirty-Seven

While Zev is quite capable of moving on his own, I open the passenger door for him, then I reach around that giant of a man and buckle him into my car.

“Rosawee, I’m oka. I don’t need a doc-dor. Jus some Benadil.”

I shut his door and run around to the driver’s side. His speech is getting worse. I start up the engine and peer over at him. His lips and eyes are swelling like rising bread dough. “Ummm… you might need a doctor.”

I run one red light and speed all the way to the urgent care center, but⁠—

“Closed? It’s closed.” My breaths turn haggard as I look at a rapidly plumping Zev. “How’s your breathing? Are you breathing?”

“I breeding,” he says just as my phone rings.

I peer down at the device clinging to my magnetized dash holder. “Oh!” I shout. “It’s Fran! She’s a wedding planner! She’ll know what to do.”