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The evening started innocently enough.
Susannah had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, her laughter floating through the summer house as she baked what she called her "famous peach pie"—though Laurel had pointed out, rather dryly, that making something once a year didn't exactly qualify as famous.
"Shut up, Laur," Susannah said, waving a flour-dusted hand. "Besides, the peaches from the farmer's market this morning were absolutely perfect. When have I ever steered you wrong?"
Laurel had opened her mouth, clearly prepared with a list, but Susannah had already twirled away, humming something that sounded vaguely like a Beach Boys song.
Now, at 8 PM, the entire household was assembled around the dining table on the back porch, the ocean breeze carrying the scent of salt and summer. String lights twinkled overhead, and the pie sat in the center of the table like a golden, lattice-topped trophy.
"This looks incredible, Mom," Jeremiah said, already reaching for the serving spoon before Susannah had even sat down.
"Patience, Jere," she laughed, swatting his hand away. "Let me cut proper slices. I didn't spend four hours on this for you to demolish it like a raccoon."
"Four hours?" Steven raised an eyebrow. "For a pie?"
"It's a labor of love," Susannah said dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest.
Conrad sat at the far end of the table, his usual spot, slouched in his chair with that distant expression he'd been wearing more and more lately. Belly watched him from across the table, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his jaw was set tight. He'd been quiet all day—quieter than usual, even for Conrad.
"You okay?" she mouthed at him.
He gave her a slight nod, barely perceptible, then looked away toward the ocean.
"Conrad, baby, you want a big slice or small?" Susannah asked, her voice carrying that particular brightness she used when she was trying to coax him out of his shell.
"Whatever's fine," he muttered.
"Big slice it is!" She cut a generous wedge and slid it onto his plate. "You need to eat more. You're looking thin."
"Mom—"
"Don't 'Mom' me. Eat."
Jeremiah snorted. "Dude, just eat the pie. Trust me, fighting her is pointless."
Jeremiah was already already shoving a forkful into his mouth. His eyes widened. "Oh my God. Mom. This is insane."
"See?" Susannah beamed, cutting slices for everyone else. "I told you those peaches were perfect."
Laurel took a delicate bite and nodded approvingly. "I hate to admit it, but this might be your best one yet."
"Was that a compliment? Laur, I need to write this down. What's the date? This needs to be documented."
"Oh, stop it," Laurel said, but she was smiling.
Steven was already reaching for seconds. Belly took her first bite and had to agree—the peaches were perfectly sweet, the crust buttery and flaky, the filling warm and cinnamon-spiced. It was the kind of dessert that tasted like summer itself.
Conrad picked up his fork slowly, as if the pie might bite him first. He cut a small piece and brought it to his mouth.
"See?" Susannah said softly, watching him. "Not everything has to be complicated, honey."
He chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite.
"It's really good," he admitted quietly, and Susannah's whole face lit up like he'd just told her he'd won the lottery.
For exactly three minutes, everything was perfect. The family ate pie, laughed at Jeremiah's story about nearly getting kicked out of the country club for doing cannonballs off the dock, and listened to Steven's elaborate plans for a bonfire the next night.
Then Conrad cleared his throat.
"Um," he said, his voice strange. Tight.
Belly looked up. "Conrad?"
He cleared his throat again, harder this time. His hand went to his neck.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Susannah asked, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth.
"I—" Conrad's eyes widened. "My throat feels weird."
"Weird how?" Laurel was already leaning forward, her mom-radar activating.
"Like... tight. And my mouth—" He touched his lips. "It's tingling."
Jeremiah frowned. "What do you mean, tingling?"
"I mean it's tingling, Jere, what the hell do you think I mean?" Conrad's voice was rising now, panic creeping in. He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loudly. "Something's wrong."
"Okay, let's not panic—" Susannah started, but then she really looked at him, and her face went white. "Oh my God. Laurel. Laurel."
"What?" Laurel stood up so fast her chair nearly tipped backward. "What is it?"
"His face," Belly whispered, horrified.
Because Conrad's face was swelling. Not dramatically, not all at once, but definitely, undeniably swelling. His lips were puffing up like he'd been punched, and his eyes were starting to look smaller as the skin around them expanded.
"What's happening?" Conrad's voice was higher now, his hand still at his throat. "I can't—it's hard to breathe—"
"Oh shit," Steven said, eyes huge. "Oh shit, oh shit—"
"EVERYBODY STAY CALM," Susannah shouted, which had the immediate effect of making everyone considerably less calm.
"MOM, HIS FACE," Jeremiah yelled, pointing at Conrad like they couldn't all see it. "WHY IS HIS FACE DOING THAT?"
"It's an allergic reaction," Laurel said, her voice sharp and controlled in that terrifying way that meant she was absolutely freaking out internally. "Connie, what did you eat today? Anything new? Any shellfish? Nuts?"
"Just—normal stuff—I don't know—" Conrad was scratching at his arms now, red welts appearing. "What the hell—"
"The pie," Belly said suddenly. "It has to be the pie. That's the only thing we all ate."
"But we're all fine!" Jeremiah protested.
"Peaches," Susannah breathed. "Oh God. He's allergic to peaches. I didn't—I never knew—"
"How do you not know your own son is allergic to peaches?" Laurel demanded.
"Because he never eats them," Susannah shouted back. "He doesn't like them! He's never liked them! I thought it was just a preference—"
"Wait," Conrad gasped, his voice getting wheezier. "I'm allergic to peaches? That's so fucking stupid—"
"Conrad Fisher, language—"
"MOM, I'M DYING, I CAN SAY FUCK—"
"YOU'RE NOT DYING," Susannah and Laurel yelled in unison.
But Conrad did look terrifying. His face was continuing to swell, his lips now genuinely balloon-like, his eyes puffy slits. Red hives were spreading down his neck and arms. He was wheezing with each breath, a horrible whistling sound.
"Okay, okay, okay," Laurel was pacing, her hands in her hair. "Where's the Benadryl? We have Benadryl, right? Beck, WHERE IS THE BENADRYL?"
"Upstairs bathroom! Medicine cabinet!" Susannah was already moving. "Jere, call 911!"
"On it!" Jeremiah fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it twice.
"Steven, get ice!" Laurel commanded.
"Ice? For what?"
"I DON'T KNOW, JUST GET IT, IT SEEMS HELPFUL—"
Belly rushed to Conrad's side as he leaned against the wall, his breathing getting worse. "Hey, hey, look at me. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
"I look like the Michelin Man," he wheezed, and even in his panic, there was a trace of that Conrad sarcasm. "This is how I die. Killed by a pie. It's embarrassing."
"You're not going to die, you dramatic asshole," but her voice was shaking and her eyes were wet.
"My mom made me a pie and it murdered me," Conrad continued, his voice getting tighter. "That's,” gasp, “going on my tombstone."
"Stop talking, save your breath!"
"Here!" Susannah came barreling back down, nearly tripping over her own feet, clutching a bottle of Benadryl. "How many do I give him?"
"The bottle says two," Laurel read, squinting.
"That seems like not enough!" Susannah was shaking the pills into her hand. "Should we give him four? Six?"
"We are not overdosing him on top of the allergic reaction, Beck!"
Conrad tried to take the pills but his hands were shaking too hard. Belly had to hold the water glass for him while he swallowed them, choking a little.
"They're on their way," Jeremiah announced, still on the phone with 911. "They said ten minutes. They said keep him calm and monitor his breathing."
"CALM?" Conrad wheezed. "I'M A BALLOON. I'M NOT CALM.” Gasp. “NOTHING ABOUT THIS.” Gasp. “IS CALM!"
"Deep breaths, honey, deep breaths—"
"I CAN'T TAKE DEEP BREATHS, THAT'S THE PROBLEM—"
Steven returned with an entire bucket of ice, sloshing water everywhere. "I got ice! Now what?"
Everyone stared at him.
"I don't know!" Laurel admitted. "Put it on the hives?"
"That'll make them worse—"
"Then don't put it on the hives!"
"THEN WHY DID YOU SEND ME FOR ICE—"
Conrad made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been him choking. It was hard to tell. His face was now genuinely alarming—lips huge and puffy, eyes almost swollen shut, his whole face red and blotchy.
"Oh my baby," Susannah was crying now, touching his face gently. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know. I never would have—"
"S'okay, Mom," Conrad slurred, his lips too swollen to form words properly. "Not your fault."
"Yes it is! I poisoned my own son!"
"Technically, his immune system poisoned him," Laurel said. "The peaches were just the trigger—"
"NOT HELPING, LAUR."
Belly kept her hand on Conrad's back, feeling each labored breath. "Where's the ambulance? It's been forever."
"It's been three minutes," Jeremiah said, but he looked scared too, younger than his seventeen years.
"He's getting worse," Steven observed. "Is he supposed to get worse? I feel like he shouldn't get worse."
"The Benadryl needs time to work," Laurel said, but her voice was tight with worry.
Conrad's breathing was definitely more labored now, each inhale a struggle, and Belly felt panic rising in her chest. This was Conrad. Her Conrad. The boy who taught her to bodysurf, who let her cry on his shoulder when her goldfish died when she was eight, who looked at her sometimes like she was the only person in the world.
"Stay with me," she whispered. "Come on, Conrad. Stay with me."
"Not going anywhere," he managed, but his voice was barely audible now. "Too tired to move."
"No," Susannah said sharply. "No, baby, you don't get to be tired. You stay awake. Stay with us."
"Tell him jokes!" Jeremiah suggested desperately. "Con! Why did the chicken cross the road?"
"Jere, now is not the time—"
"To get away from your horrible jokes," Conrad wheezed, and despite everything, Belly felt a surge of hope because if he could still snark, he was still okay.
Finally—finally—sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.
"Thank God," Laurel breathed.
The paramedics arrived like a SWAT team, bursting through the front door with their equipment, all business and efficiency. A woman with kind eyes and quick hands assessed Conrad immediately.
"He had peach pie," Laurel spoke up. "We gave him two Benadryl about seven minutes ago. He’s been breathing weird. God, we really didn’t know he’s allergic."
"It’s alright," the paramedic said. "It’s anaphylaxis. We're going to give him epinephrine. This is going to help, buddy," she told Conrad.
Conrad nodded, or tried to. His whole face was so swollen now he looked like a character from a cartoon, and in any other circumstance it might have been funny, but right now it was just terrifying.
The injection went into his thigh—Conrad barely flinched—and then everyone waited, holding their breath.
"Come on, come on," Jeremiah muttered, his hands clenched into fists.
Thirty seconds. A minute.
And then, slowly, Conrad's breathing started to ease. The wheezing didn't disappear entirely, but it got quieter, less desperate.
"There we go," the paramedic said, satisfied. "We're going to take him in to the hospital for observation. The epinephrine can wear off and symptoms can return. He'll need to be monitored."
"I'm coming with," Susannah said immediately.
"Me too," Belly said, in a tone that suggested she'd fight anyone who tried to stop her.
"Beck you go with him. We'll take the car," Laurel said.
The paramedics loaded Conrad onto a stretcher—he protested weakly, saying he could walk, but nobody listened—and wheeled him toward the ambulance. As they passed through the porch, Conrad caught sight of himself in the window reflection.
"Holy shit," he mumbled through his swollen lips. "I look like—like—"
"You look like you lost a fight with a balloon pump," Jeremiah said, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry. Nervous humor."
"S'okay," Conrad's voice was thick and slurred. "Pretty funny."
"We can laugh about this later," Susannah said, but she was already half-laughing, half-crying. "Much, much later."
"Gonna need so many pictures for blackmail," Steven said.
"Steven!" Laurel smacked his arm.
"What? I'm just saying—"
At the hospital, they were ushered into a room where Conrad was hooked up to various monitors, given more medication, and told he'd need to stay for at least four hours of observation.
The doctor—a tired-looking woman with gray streaks in her hair—gave them the rundown. "So. Allergies can develop anytime, as you all clearly saw tonight. He'll need to carry an EpiPen from now on. We'll prescribe two. And he needs to avoid all stone fruits—peaches, nectarines, plums, cherries, apricots."
"So much fruit," Conrad mumbled from the bed. His voice was still thick, but clearer than before. "Stupid immune system."
"Better than the alternative," the doctor said dryly. "Another few minutes without treatment and we'd be having a different conversation."
Susannah made a small, wounded sound, and Laurel put an arm around her.
After the doctor left, they all settled in for the wait. Jeremiah pulled up a chair next to Conrad's bed, while Steven claimed the windowsill. Belly sat on the edge of Conrad's bed, carefully avoiding the IV line, and Susannah and Laurel took the two chairs near the door.
"So," Jeremiah said after a long moment of silence. "That was terrifying."
"Understatement," Steven muttered.
"I really thought—" Belly's voice cracked, and she stopped, pressing her hands to her face.
Conrad's hand—still covered in hives but looking more human now—found hers. "Hey. I'm okay. I'm right here."
"Your face was so swollen I couldn't see your eyes," she said, and she was crying now, couldn't stop it. "I couldn't do anything—"
"You stayed with me," Conrad said quietly. "That was enough."
Jeremiah cleared his throat roughly. "Dude, you scared the hell out of me.”
"I'm so sorry," Susannah whispered again. "Conrad, baby, I'm so, so—"
"Mom." Conrad's voice was firm despite the lingering swelling. "Stop. You didn't know. I didn't know. It's nobody's fault. It's just... stupid fruit."
"Stupid delicious fruit," Jeremiah corrected. "That pie was amazing. It's tragic that it tried to murder you, but it was objectively delicious."
"Jere!" Belly threw a balled-up tissue at him.
"What? I'm just saying!"
"Asshat," Conrad said, but there was the ghost of a smile on his distorted face.
"Somebody has to lighten the mood," Jeremiah defended. "We almost lost you to a pie. A pie, Conrad. Do you know how embarrassing that would have been for us? 'How did he die?' 'Pastry incident.' We'd never live it down."
"Good to know you were worried about your reputation," Conrad said dryly.
"I was worried about you, you asshole," Jeremiah shot back, and his voice cracked. "Don't do that again."
"Not planning on it."
Steven spoke up from his spot by the window. "So you're really allergic to all stone fruits? That's rough, man. Cherries are great."
"Thank you, Steven."
"Just saying. You're missing out."
"I'll survive without them," Conrad said, then paused. "Literally."
Laurel stood and stretched. "I'm getting coffee. Anyone else?"
"Me," Susannah said immediately. "Something strong. Maybe with whiskey."
"They don't serve whiskey at hospital cafeterias, Beck."
"Then what's even the point of hospitals?"
After they left, the room fell quiet except for the beeping of Conrad's monitors. Belly was still holding his hand, her thumb tracing patterns on his palm.
"You really scared me," she said softly.
"I know. I scared me too." He squeezed her hand. "For a minute there, I couldn't breathe and I just kept thinking... stupid thoughts."
"Like what?"
"Like I never told you—" He stopped, closed his puffy eyes. "Never mind."
"Conrad—"
"Not now, Belly. I look like a balloon animal. Can we have serious conversations when I'm at least somewhat human-looking?"
She wanted to push, but she could see the exhaustion in every line of his body. "Fine. But you owe me that conversation later."
"Deal."
Jeremiah yawned. "This is the weirdest night ever. We should have just played Monopoly."
"Monopoly ruins families," Steven said. "At least this was just attempted murder by fruit."
"Nothing about tonight was 'just' anything," Conrad muttered.
By the time Susannah and Laurel returned with coffee, Conrad's swelling had decreased significantly. He still looked like he'd had a bad reaction to something, but he no longer looked like a character from a medical textbook on allergies.
The next few hours passed slowly. Jeremiah fell asleep in his chair, snoring softly. Steven dozed on the windowsill. Susannah and Laurel talked quietly near the door, processing the night's events.
Belly stayed awake, watching Conrad. He'd fallen into a light sleep, his breathing finally even and normal. She thought about Conrad's unfinished sentence. Never told you—what?
Around midnight, the doctor cleared Conrad to go home with strict instructions, two EpiPens, and a prescription for more antihistamines.
"No more peaches," she said unnecessarily.
"Trust me," Conrad said, his voice finally back to normal, though his face was still puffy. "Peaches and I are done."
The drive home was quiet, everyone exhausted. When they got back to the summer house, the pie still sat on the table, now cold and accusatory.
"I'm throwing this away," Susannah said.
"No, no," Conrad stopped her. "Everyone else should eat it. It's a good pie. Not the pie's fault I'm defective."
"You're not defective," Belly said sharply.
"Just allergic," Jeremiah added. "To delicious things. Which is sad."
"So sad," Steven agreed. "Thoughts and prayers."
"You all suck," Conrad said, but he was smiling now, really smiling, and the relief in the room was palpable.
That night, after everyone had finally gone to bed, Conrad couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his throat tightening again, felt that moment of pure panic when he couldn't breathe. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, trying to calm his racing heart.
A soft knock on his door.
"Conrad?" His mom's voice, gentle. "Can I come in?"
He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded, then realized she couldn't see him. "Yeah."
Susannah slipped into his room, closing the door quietly behind her. She was wearing her old summer house pajamas, the ones with the faded sailboats. In the dim light from his bedside lamp, Conrad could see how thin she'd gotten, the sharp angles of her collarbones, the way her clothes hung loose. She'd been wearing scarves a lot lately, hiding her hair loss. Tonight she wasn't wearing one, and her thinning hair was pulled back in a small ponytail.
"Couldn't sleep either," she said, sitting beside him on the bed. "Kept thinking about tonight."
"Mom, I'm fine—"
"I know you are. Now." She touched his face gently, her fingers cool against his still-puffy cheek. "But for a few minutes there, Conrad, I thought—" Her voice broke. "I thought I was going to lose you."
Something in Conrad's chest cracked open. "You didn't, though. I'm right here."
"I know, baby. I know." She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was thick with tears. "I kept thinking, what if something had happened to you? What if you'd been alone when you ate those peaches? What if we hadn't been there?"
"But you were there," Conrad said. "That's what matters."
Susannah laughed, a watery sound. "I poisoned my own son. Mother of the year right here."
"You didn't know. I didn't know." He turned to look at her properly. "Mom, it's not your fault."
She reached out and took his hand, holding it tight. Her hands were so small now, so fragile. When had that happened? When had his strong, vibrant mother become this delicate thing?
"I've been so scared," she whispered. "So scared of leaving you boys. Of not being here for the big moments, the important things. And tonight I realized—I'm scared of all the little moments too. The random Tuesday afternoons. The summer dinners. Making pie and watching you eat it and knowing you're safe and happy and here."
Conrad's throat was tight again, but for a different reason now. "Mom—"
"No, let me say this." She squeezed his hand. "Conrad, you've been carrying so much this summer. I see it. The way you watch me when you think I'm not looking. The way you've been so quiet, so distant. Baby, you don't have to protect me from this. You don't have to be strong all the time."
"Someone has to be," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word.
"No," Susannah said firmly. "You're eighteen years old, Conrad. You should be thinking about college and girls and what restaurant to go to on Friday night. You shouldn't be—" She stopped, wiped her eyes. "You shouldn't be worried about your mom dying."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy and terrible. They'd all been dancing around it for months, using gentle euphemisms—sick, not feeling well, treatment. Nobody said the real words.
"I'm not ready," Conrad admitted, and suddenly he was crying, really crying, for the first time since her diagnosis. "Mom, I'm so scared. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be okay when you're—when you're not—"
"Oh, sweetheart." Susannah pulled him into her arms, and Conrad let himself collapse against her, his head on her shoulder, sobbing like he was a little kid again. She stroked his hair, making soft shushing sounds. "I know. I know, baby. I'm scared too."
They sat like that for a long time, Conrad crying and Susannah holding him, both of them finally letting out everything they'd been holding in all summer.
When Conrad's tears finally slowed, Susannah eased him back gently. "Lie down," she said softly.
"Mom, I'm not five—"
"Humor your dying mother," she said, and Conrad's eyes went wide in shock before he saw the small smile on her face. "Too soon?"
"Way too soon," he said, but he lay back on the bed.
Susannah shifted so she was sitting against the headboard, and Conrad let his head rest on her lap like he used to do when he was little. Her fingers moved through his hair, gentle and rhythmic.
"I need you to promise me something," she said quietly.
"Anything."
"When I'm gone—" She felt him tense. "Conrad, listen. When I'm gone, I need you to keep living. Really living. Not just going through the motions. I need you to let yourself be happy. Let yourself love people. Let yourself eat mysterious foods without knowing if you're allergic."
He huffed a laugh despite himself. "Maybe not that last one."
"Okay, maybe carry your EpiPen," she conceded. "But the rest of it—Conrad, you have so much life ahead of you. So much joy waiting. Don't let grief make you forget that."
"I don't know if I can do that," he whispered.
"You can. You will." Her fingers kept moving through his hair. "And whenever you need me, I'll be here. In the sound of the ocean. In the summer house. In Jeremiah's terrible jokes and the way Laurel drinks her coffee and the feeling of sand between your toes. I'll be in all of it."
Conrad's eyes were burning again. "That's really cheesy, Mom."
"I'm allowed to be cheesy. I almost lost you to a pie tonight. That gives me at least a week of cheesy-mom immunity."
"A week? That's generous."
"I'm a generous woman." She was quiet for a moment. "You know what the worst part of tonight was? It wasn't seeing you swell up like a balloon—though that was terrifying and also, I'm sorry, a little bit funny."
"Mom!"
"It was!" she laughed. "Your lips were huge. You looked like a fish." Conrad groaned, but she could feel him smiling. "No, the worst part was thinking that I might not have time to teach you everything you need to know. How to make that pasta sauce you love. How to tie a tie properly because your father never learned. How to know when someone really loves you."
"I think I know that last one," Conrad said quietly.
"Do you?" Susannah looked down at him. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've been pushing away a certain girl who looks at you like you hung the moon."
"Mom—"
"I'm just saying. Life's too short to be afraid of the good things, Conrad. I learned that tonight watching you nearly die from a peach. Tomorrow's not guaranteed. Not for me, not for anyone. So when something good comes along—when someone good comes along—don't push it away because you're scared."
Conrad was quiet, thinking about Belly on the porch earlier, her hand in his, her refusal to leave his side. "Yeah," he said finally. "Maybe you're right."
"I'm always right. I'm your mother."
"Hmm. Modest too. Clearly."
"It's one of my best qualities." She yawned, and Conrad could feel how tired she was in the way her fingers slowed in his hair. "You should sleep, baby. It's been a long night."
"You should sleep too."
"I will. In a minute." But she didn't move, just kept stroking his hair, humming something soft and wordless.
Conrad's eyes were getting heavy despite everything. The rhythm of her fingers, the warmth of her lap, the sound of the ocean through his open window—it was all combining to pull him toward sleep.
"Mom?" he mumbled.
"Hmm?"
"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we're both here."
"Me too, sweetheart." She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Me too."
"Even if you did try to murder me with fruit."
She laughed, the sound soft and full of love. "I promise all future pies will be peach-free."
"That's all I ask."