“You can’t have one,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then why did you bring it?”
“Because I wanted one.”
I stared at him.
He handed me the second cup.
“Decaf.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“You know I don’t drink coffee.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you bring me one?”
He shrugged.
“I didn’t know what else to bring.”
Something about that made me laugh.
It was the first real laugh I’d had in days.
He smiled.
Only for a second.
Then his face became serious again.
“How are you?”
“I hate that question.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone wants me to say I’m fine.”
“I don’t.”
I looked at him.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“The truth is that I’m terrified.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
“Because now you’re finally saying it.”
I looked away.
“My sister was twenty-eight.”
“I know.”
“My doctors told me I had a good prognosis.”
“I know.”
“And I still keep thinking I’m going to end up like her.”
Vega sat in the chair across from me.
“Do you know what I thought when I first met you?”
“That I was weak.”
“No.”
“That I was hiding something.”
