Page 81 of Push My Buttons
The receptionist shakes her head. "I'm afraid not right now. The notes indicate she hasn’t regained consciousness and may be in surgery. Head trauma cases are taken very seriously." She types something else, then adds, "But you're welcome to wait in the third-floor waiting area. The doctors will come speak with you when they can."
"Surgery?" Theo repeats, the color draining from his face.
Surgery. The word hits me like a physical blow. My tapping increases in tempo, my breath coming faster. Surgery means serious. Surgery means critical. Surgery means—
"What kind of surgery?" Theo demands, his voice tight with barely controlled panic.
The receptionist's expression softens slightly. "I'm afraid I don't have those details. Head up to the third floor, take a right when you exit the elevator. Dr. Reynolds is the attending physician. I’ll have someone let him know you’re there."
"Thank you," I say, genuine gratitude in my voice. "Thank you."
Theo is already moving toward the elevators, and I hurry to catch up with him. The doors slide closed, leaving us alone in the small metal box. The sudden quiet is almost as jarring as the noise had been.
"This is our fault," Theo says, staring at the illuminated numbers above the door. "We drove her away. We lied to her."
I can't argue with him. The weight of our deception sits heavy on my shoulders. "We thought we were protecting her."
"We were protecting ourselves," he counters bitterly. "From having to watch her be afraid again. From having to deal with her knowing the truth."
The elevator doors open on the third floor, revealing another fluorescent-lit hallway. We follow the signs to the ICU waiting area—a small room with uncomfortable-looking chairs and outdated magazines scattered on low tables. A television mounted in the corner plays a news program with the volume set low.
We're the only ones here. Theo paces the length of the room while I sink into a chair in the corner, as far from the television as possible. The constant movement on the screen is distracting, making it harder to organize my thoughts.
I press my fingertips against my thigh again. Trying to center myself, trying to process the swirling emotions threatening to overwhelm my system.
"What if she doesn't wake up?" Theo's voice breaks the silence, giving voice to my deepest fear. "What if the last thing she remembers about us is that we lied to her?"
"Don't," I say sharply. "She'll wake up. She has to."
"But if she doesn't—"
"She will." I can't entertain the alternative. My brain simply won't process the possibility of a world without Wren in it. Without her quiet strength, her expressive hands, her soft laughter that somehow fills a room more completely than any loud sound could.
Theo finally stops pacing and drops into the chair beside me, his body a study in controlled tension. "I never told her I love her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never said the words."
"Neither did I," I admit, the confession painful in my throat.
"Why?" he asks, looking at me with genuine bewilderment, his eyes glistening. "Why didn't we say it? We both feel it. Have for weeks."
I consider the question, trying to analyze my own hesitation with the same precision I'd apply to a complex algorithm. "I was afraid," I finally say. "Not of the feeling itself, but of how it might change things. Of putting pressure on her when she was still healing. Of saying it wrong, at the wrong time, in the wrong way. And maybe a little afraid of her rejecting me."
"Same," Theo says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Plus, you know, the whole weird triangle thing. I wasn't sure if saying it would mess up the balance somehow."
I understand exactly what he means. The three of us have been navigating uncharted territory from the beginning—finding ourway without a map, creating our own rules as we go. There's no guidebook for what we're doing, no precedent to follow.
"If she wakes up—" Theo starts.
"When," I correct him firmly. "When she wakes up."
"When she wakes up," he amends, "I'm telling her. No more waiting for the right moment. No more holding back."
I nod, making the same silent promise to myself. No more hesitation. No more fear of saying the wrong thing. She deserves to know how deeply she is loved, how completely she has transformed our lives.
Time stretches endlessly in the waiting room. Minutes feel like hours as we sit in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. My mind keeps replaying this morning—the hurt in her eyes when she discovered our deception, the way her hands trembled as she signed her accusations. I should have told her the truth weeks ago. Should have trusted her strength, her resilience.
Instead, I treated her like something fragile, something that needed to be sheltered from reality. In trying to protect her, I undermined the very autonomy she's fought so hard to reclaim.
A doctor in blue scrubs pushes through the double doors, his expression unreadable. "Family of Lilliana Cain?" he asks, glancing between us.
