23. Ellie

23

Ellie

One moment, Ethan and I are talking and the next, he stumbles. His eyes roll back, and he collapses into my arms.

"Ethan!" I scream, my voice cracking with panic. I manage to catch him, my heart racing as I gently lower him to the ground. "Ethan, wake up! Please, wake up!"

He's not responding. His face is pale, and his skin feels clammy. My hands are trembling as I frantically try to wake him. I grab my phone and dial 9-1-1, my fingers shaking so badly I almost drop it.

What in the Hell is happening?

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"My boyfriend just collapsed! He's not responding. Please hurry!" I rattle off his address, my voice shaking.

"Help is on the way. Stay on the line."

I quickly text Daniel knowing he’s nearby and could get here faster than the ambulance.

Ethan passed out. Not waking up. Hurry!

Barely a few minutes pass before I hear the pounding of footsteps. Daniel bursts through the door, his face pale with worry.

"What happened?" he demands, dropping to his knees beside Ethan.

"I don't know! He just collapsed!" I cry, my voice trembling. "He's burning up."

Daniel's face hardens with determination. He finds a thermometer gun in the bathroom and scans Ethan’s forehead. Moments later, it beeps, and Daniel's face goes even paler.

"104 degrees," he says grimly. "Shit.”

The wail of sirens fills the air, and moments later, the first responders burst into the room. They move quickly, checking Ethan's vitals and loading him onto a stretcher. He's still unconscious, and fear grips my heart like a vice.

"Is he going to be okay?" I ask one of the paramedics, my voice barely a whisper.

"We're doing everything we can," she says, her tone professional yet kind.

Daniel and I follow the ambulance to the hospital, every second feeling like an eternity. I can't stop the tears from streaming down my face, the fear of losing Ethan overwhelming me.

At the hospital, they rush Ethan into a room, and we're left in the waiting area, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling the air. Time seems to stand still as we wait, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the occasional announcement over the PA system.

Finally, a doctor comes out, his expression serious.

"Are you here for Ethan Anderson?" he asks, and we both nod, standing up.

"I'm Dr. Hayes. Ethan has a severe infection. It appears to have started from an initial wound and has now spread to his bone and bloodstream. It's critical. We're administering the strongest antibiotics we have, but it's going to be a tough fight."

I feel like the ground is falling out from under me.

"Will he be okay?"

"We're doing everything we can," Dr. Hayes says. "But it's a very serious infection. He's in critical condition."

Daniel puts a comforting arm around my shoulders, but it does little to ease the terror gripping my heart. Ethan is strong, but this... this is something entirely different. I can't lose him. Not now, not ever.

“Critical as in…”

“It’s just an infection,” Daniel interjects.

“It’s gotten into the bone and he could lose his leg. If we’re not able to get in front of the infection, it could be fatal.”

“Fatal?”

The doctor nods. “We’re doing everything we can. If he’d have come in sooner, this wouldn’t be the dire situation that it is.”

The hours crawl by as we wait for any updates. I can’t sit still, pacing the room, wringing my hands. Daniel tries to reassure me, but I can see the worry etched on his face too.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “He was fine, and then...”

“He’s going to be okay.”

We cling to that hope as the minutes turn into hours. Finally, another doctor comes out to speak with us.

"He’s stable for now," she says. "The antibiotics are starting to take effect, but he's not out of the woods yet. We need to monitor him closely."

"Can we see him?"

"Yes, but only for a few minutes. He needs rest."

Daniel and I follow her down the hall to Ethan’s room. The sight of him lying there, pale and hooked up to an IV and the heart monitors, is almost too much to bear.

The heart monitor, some of this stuff is just routine normal stuff. Stop being so dramatic!

I take his hand, tears blurring my vision.

“Ethan, I’m here,” I whisper. “You’re going to be okay. You have to be.”

We stay as long as we’re allowed, and then some. The nurses are kind, but firm, insisting that Ethan needs rest. Reluctantly, we leave, but I can’t shake the fear that something will happen if I’m not there.

Back in the waiting room, I collapse into a chair, exhaustion and fear weighing me down. Daniel sits beside me, offering silent support. I’m grateful for his presence, but my mind is a whirlwind of worry and what-ifs.

The night drags on, and I find myself drifting in and out of restless sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ethan lying there, and the fear surges anew. I can’t lose him. I just can’t.

“How did this happen?” I ask my brother.

“He got cut by the skate, remember?”

“He said he was fine.”

“Maybe he didn't want you to worry. He’s convinced that if he shows any weakness to his parents they’ll take the team from him.”

“His mother told me they were going to.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think they really will. His father couldn’t keep it afloat, they don’t want it back.”

“You know, Charlotte told me that ticket sales have been bad for a while and that Mr. Anderson was basically forced to step down as owner.”

“I’m aware. Ethan and I talked about it. We think that his dad handed it over to him to save it.”

“What if… what if he handed it to him just temporarily so no one knew that he was the problem. What if he wants to swoop in and make a deal about the fact that it’s failing and then take advantage of the work that Ethan’s doing now, and take credit for it.”

“That’s a bit wild.”

“I think his parents are a bit wild.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Daniel says.

“I mean, I’ve heard of some crazy things happening. It’s just insane because all of these things that they’re threatening to take the team over aren’t even that big of a deal. I went back through and looked at his media persona, went through all of the public information on him and the team. None of it is anything that would warrant this. He’s really kept his nose clean for the last few years.”

“You’re right. That’s why I keep telling him that I don’t think they will take the team because it’s all ridiculous. I think they just want to bully him into doing what they want.”

“I am glad that I can’t wrap my brain around any parent doing this to their child.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t understand why he wouldn’t tell me he was hurt. I… maybe he hasn’t changed like I thought.”

“Ellie, you were hurt yourself and in the hospital. Maybe he was going to and then that happened and he didn’t want to burden you anymore. Don’t assume the worst, okay? Ethan really has changed. I don’t like the idea of you two together, but… he’s not the same guy he was when you two were together in college. He’s matured a lot.”

“Have you heard from Grams lately?” I ask.

I need to change the subject. I can’t think about our relationship right now, if only because I’m so scared about his health.

“No, not at all. Have you?”

“Nope, her phone always goes straight to voicemail.

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? I’ll stay here. I have coverage at the shop tomorrow, you don’t until eleven when Keeley can get there.”

I sigh. I know he’s right. I also don’t want to leave Ethan.

“I…”

“You need your rest. He needs his rest. I will call you immediately if anything changes, but there’s nothing you can do right now for him.”

I stare back at him before I nod.

The hospital doors glide open with a faint whoosh, and I make my way outside. We’ve been here a lot over the last week and I’m sick of it.

I can’t face the silence of Ethan’s empty house. I can't go back to mine either, where every corner is haunted by memories of being attacked by that man.

The man whose voice sounded exactly like Ryan’s.

That’s nonsense. I am imagining things. There’s no way that he would break into my house and attack me.

I climb into Ethan’s truck and inhale the scent of him. I’m still not sure why I grabbed his keys and jumped into it instead of into Daniel’s truck when the ambulance left, but now it makes sense.

I pull out of the parking lot and drive toward the store. I need this time to collect myself. My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind is wide awake, thoughts racing like a relentless storm.

I don’t want to go to my house because of the break in. It may be all cleaned up now, but I don’t want to go there alone.

I also don’t want to go back to Ethan’s house because the sight of him falling in my arms will also be on replay in my brain.

That only leaves the store. Thank goodness,

Grams had Daniel put in a small apartment a few years back. After Gramps died she sometimes didn’t want to go home to an empty house and the store allowed her to stay there instead.

I exhale loudly and replay my hospital stay. When I was alone in the room, the nurse had come in and told me that because I was pregnant they couldn’t do an MRI.

I’m pregnant.

I’m unsure about how I feel right now.

I’m assuming she thought that I knew already, but hearing her say it was a huge shock to my system.

I mean, I was in the hospital for being attacked in my home.

And now, Ethan is in the hospital for a life-threatening infection.

We cannot be having a baby right now.

How can I be pregnant?

When I finally reach the store, it’s bathed in the streetlights. “Threads of Time” the sign reads, its elegant script a relic from a bygone era, much like the treasures it houses. I fish the keys out of my bag and unlock the door, the familiar creak of the hinges a comforting sound in the stillness of the night.

I flick on a few lamps, their warm light casting a golden glow that chases away the shadows. I head straight to the small bathroom at the back, needing to wash away the hospital’s sterile scent. A hot shower later, I change into fresh clothes, feeling a little more human. I know there’s a couch in the back room where I could lie down if sleep ever comes, but I doubt it will tonight.

Watching Ethan pass out like that was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve never even seen the man sick with the flu.

To see him so pale, so vulnerable, damn, that near broke my heart.

I can’t lose him.

I step out into the main shop area, running my fingers over the delicate fabrics of dresses, the smooth leather of vintage bags, and the cool metal of antique jewelry.

“Hey Whiskers,” I say as she meows a greeting to me. “How are the babies?”

I walk over to the play area I’d set up for the little babies, all of them sleeping peacefully, nestled together.

Whiskers rubs up against me as she meows and I pick her up and begin petting her as I carry her throughout the store.

“I missed you guys too,” I tell her.

The back door beckons me, the one that leads to the backstairs. I make my way to the stairs leading to the second floor, curious to see if Sasha and Tony have done any more with the space. As I ascend, the air seems to lighten, filled with the scent of cedar and lavender. At the top of the stairs, I stop and marvel at the transformation.

They are magicians.

I didn’t think it was possible for them to do even more with the space, but they did!

It’s all so beautiful.

The second floor is a masterpiece of organization and aesthetic beauty. Garments hang in perfect order, categorized by era and color, creating a rainbow of history.

Sasha and Tony have outdone themselves. Mannequins dressed in the finest pieces stand in elegant poses, and the walls are adorned with framed sketches and fabric swatches. I flip on another switch, lights come on and soft music plays from hidden speakers, adding to the ambiance. The entire space feels alive, a living, breathing gallery of style and art.

I wander through the aisles, marveling at the details of beading and embroidery. Each piece here is special, carefully selected for its uniqueness and beauty. It’s a labor of love, and it shows in every corner of this space. I take a deep breath, the scents and sights soothing the turmoil inside me.

“Whiskers, they did an amazing job, didn’t they?”

She meows a response, burying her head into my chest as she purrs.

But there's one more place I need to visit tonight. The attic. My feet are reluctant as I climb the narrow stairs, each step creaking under my weight. The air grows cooler, tinged with the scent of old wood and dust. At the top, I pause, my hand hovering over the door handle. I push it open slowly, the hinges groaning in protest.

The attic is dimly lit, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The space is cluttered with old trunks and boxes, remnants of another time. But my eyes are drawn to the corner, to the spot where the body was found. The police tape is still there, a stark reminder of the recent horror. I swallow hard, forcing myself to walk towards it.

I stand there, staring at the floor marked with tape, feeling the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

This was once a place of joy for me, a place where I played as a child, surrounded by the magic of my grandmother’s creations. I close my eyes, trying to replace the dark memory with one of light and laughter.

Slowly, I turn away from the corner and begin to explore the rest of the attic. I touch a few skirts, needing them to ground me, feeling the textures, the softness of silk, the roughness of burlap, the intricate lace.

Each piece holds a memory, a fragment of my childhood. I remember watching Grams sew, her hands deft and sure, creating beauty out of simple threads and cloth. This attic was her sanctuary, and in a way, it’s mine too.

As I sift through a stack of old patterns, a small leather-bound journal catches my eye. It’s tucked away in a corner, almost hidden. I pick it up, the leather soft and worn with age. I recognize it immediately—it’s my grandmother’s journal. My heart skips a beat as I open it, the pages yellowed and fragile. Her neat, elegant handwriting covers the pages, sketches and notes interspersed with personal reflections. I sink to the floor, the journal in my lap, and begin to read.

Her words draw me into her world, a world of creativity and passion, of struggles and triumphs. She writes about her designs, her inspirations, her dreams.

“** August 2, 1952**

I never intended to run away. It happened almost by accident. I am sixteen and headstrong, desperate to escape the confines of our small town and the stifling expectations placed upon me. When I boarded the train to California, I had no idea what awaited me.

How on earth I met Cindy who begged me to come to Paris with her, I don’t know. But getting on that plane with her felt like the best decision I’d ever made in my life.

It was my dream.

The city of lights, the city of love—it was everything I dreamed of and more.

The first few days were a blur of wonder and fear. I wandered the streets, wide-eyed and enchanted by the bustling markets, the majestic architecture, the vibrant life that pulsed through every corner. I was alone, but I had never felt so alive. I pretended to be older than I was, carrying myself with a confidence I didn’t quite feel, hoping it would shield me from any danger.

And then I met Armand.

It was at a small café on Rue Saint-Honoré. I was sipping a coffee, trying to make it last as long as possible, when he sat down at the table next to mine. He was handsome, with dark, tousled hair and eyes that seemed to see right through me. He smiled, and I was lost.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. May I join you?’ he asked, his voice a smooth, velvety caress.

I nodded, unable to speak. He introduced himself, and I quickly learned that Armand was no ordinary man. He was a cousin to a famous designer, someone whose name I recognized from the fashion magazines I devoured back home. Armand had a way about him, a charm that was impossible to resist. He made me feel seen, important, like I was the only person in the world.

Our connection was instant, electric. He took me under his wing, showing me the hidden gems of Paris that tourists rarely saw. We strolled along the Seine at dusk, the city bathed in a golden glow. We visited art galleries and attended impromptu jazz concerts in smoky underground clubs. Every moment with him was magic, every touch a promise of something more.

One evening, as we sat on a park bench under the Eiffel Tower’s twinkling lights, he took my hand in his and asked, ‘Would you like to see a fashion show?’

I stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘A real fashion show?’

He laughed, a rich, warm sound that made my heart flutter. ‘Yes, a real fashion show. My cousin is presenting his new collection tomorrow, and I’d love for you to be my guest.’

The next day, we arrived at a grand salon, my heart pounding with excitement and nerves. The room was filled with elegant people, all effortlessly chic and sophisticated. I felt like an imposter, a small-town girl pretending to be someone she wasn’t. But Armand was by my side, his presence reassuring.

If the people in Frostwood Falls could see me here!

The show was a revelation. Models glided down the runway in creations that took my breath away. The fabrics, the designs, the sheer artistry of it all—I was entranced. I realized then that fashion was not just about clothes; it was about expression, identity, dreams made tangible.

After the show, Armand introduced me to his cousin, a tall, striking man with an air of easy grace. He looked me up and down, then smiled. ‘You have the look of someone who belongs in this world,’ he said. ‘Stay in Paris, and you’ll find your place here.’

I will never leave Armand or Paris. This is where I belong.”

I look down at Whiskers.

“My parents said that Grams never left the country, but her journal says differently. What is she hiding and who is Armand?”

Whiskers meows again at me. I stand up and stretch before I carry the journal downstairs.

I should probably start looking through the building more. It seems that my grandmother likes to hide things from us.

I need to tell Ethan that we’re going to be parents. This is huge and I can’t go through this alone.