It took about a second for him to cross the distance between us, to crouch beside me, and ask with strange intensity, “Where is she? Paige, tell me, where is she?”
I stared at the floor, “At the hospital in Florida.”
When I looked up at him again he was staring out the window. His expression was speculative, but it was also happy, hopeful. It killed me.
Perhaps I had told him too soon. “Drew,” I said quietly, “She’s in a coma.”
“People wake up from comas, sometimes,” he muttered, still staring out the window. His expression was dreamy now. I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my face then. “Drew,” I nearly sobbed, my voice broken, “She’s not going to wake up.”
He looked back at me for the first time; he seemed mildly confused. “Paige,” he said in a patient voice, like an adult speaking to a child, “Of course she’ll wake up.”
He had so much faith in that. I had told him too soon. The hope would surely crush him. “She’s been in a coma for 8 months. She won’t wake up.” I closed my eyes, exhausted.