I cling to my father because I need his strength. I’m unravelling so fast, I don’t know which way is up. A few minutes later, two of my favorite people rush us.
“What happened?” Brayden growls. “Is he okay?”
I step away from Dad to pull Mia to me. She’s crying and it’s then I realize Brayden’s lashes are wet too. Swiping at my eye with my palm, I let out a ragged sigh.
“He, uh, he was standing in his bathroom packing his bag it looked like. He was just so pale. Clutched his chest and mentioned his heart. I thought he meant his heart was hurt from having to leave us at first, but he fucking meant literally.” I squeeze my eyes shut, more hot tears rolling out. “I, uh…”
Brayden hugs the both of us, leaning his forehead against mine. “What, Ash?”
“I was so f-fucking scared. I didn’t know what to do. I c-called nine-one-one. They told me to do CPR.” My body trembles with a sob. “They… The paramedics took over and… fuck.”
“What?” Mia whimpers.
“He, uh, he didn’t have a pulse. C-Cardiac arrest they said. He was so fucking blue.” Brayden squeezes me, urging me to continue. “They used the defib and it took like five shocks before they got his pulse going again. That’s all I know.”
We cling to each other, crying for what seems like forever, all of us worried as hell. Then, we hear voices speaking with Dad. A sob. And then Molly is hugging us.
“It’s okay, kids,” she coos. “Everything’s going to be okay. Our Andrew is a fighter.”
I want to believe her.
I really do.
“He’s only twenty-two. How could he have a heart attack?” I ask, my voice a whisper. “I don’t understand.”
Brayden pulls away and our eyes meet. “His dad…” His bottom lip trembles. “I should have known.”
“What?” both Mia and I ask.
“His dad died from a heart condition. I think… I think maybe it’s genetic.”
I jerk my gaze to Dad. “The thing written into his contract that he didn’t want to discuss…”
Dad’s lips purse and he nods. “I’m sorry, Son. He didn’t think it’d be a problem since he’s been medicated for it.”
Brayden curses. “He was taking medication. I saw it Thanksgiving weekend. I should have pushed and asked what it was for.”
A heart condition.
Medication.
Why would he keep this from us?
“The important thing is,” Molly says, “he’s here and they can take care of him.”
But they didn’t see him.
His pale face that turned blue with each passing second. His dark blue lips. No sounds. No movement. He was dead. They jump-started his heart, but he was dead.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I barely make it to the trash can before I puke my guts up.
He has to live.
I’m not going to be able to live without him.Heart condition.
Stroke.
Lack of oxygen to the brain.
Coma.
Those four pieces of information keep running through my head on repeat as I stare at Drew’s lifeless body. After the doctors got him stabilized and ran extensive tests, that’s what we were told. He has a heart condition. For some reason he had a stroke. The lack of oxygen to his brain caused him to slip into a coma, and they don’t know if or when he’ll wake up.
I’ve been sitting by his bed, holding his hand for what feels like days, listening to his heart beat on the monitors. The doctors have no answers. He should’ve woken up by now, but he hasn’t. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I continue to ignore it, not giving a shit who it is. Everyone I need is in this room with me. Ashton and Brayden finally fell asleep on the couch. I should probably get some sleep as well, but I can’t bring myself to let go of his hand.
I had just finished taking my last final for the semester and was walking over to the tutoring center, when I received the video of the four of us dancing at the Halloween party. Not too long after, while I was in the middle of trying to help a student study for his final—completely distracted and unable to focus—I got the call that Drew was being taken to the hospital.
After hours of waiting for news, we learned that Brayden was listed as Drew’s emergency contact. He was in shock. They hadn’t talked in years, yet he listed him. That says a lot about how much Drew loves Brayden—even when they weren’t talking.
My phone buzzes again and I pull it out to turn it off, when I see the word Dad flash across my screen. Without thought, I press answer.
“Mia,” he says, his voice sounding pained over the line.
“Yeah,” I croak out. I should be mad at him—hell, I am—shouldn’t want to talk to him, but for some reason I need to hear his voice. I can’t explain why.