He broke his back falling off a ladder six months ago. I offered to postpone school and come home and help, but my parents were both adamant that the best thing I could do for them was to stay in school and work my hardest. So that’s what I did in between bus trips home to visit and offer the best support I could.
My parents ran a house painting company their whole lives, but when Dad fell, their medical insurer weaseled out of paying, citing a loophole in their policy that work-related injuries needed to be covered by a separate rider. I didn’t know how serious their financial struggles were until the night before last, when Mom finally told me that, despite fighting, there was no insurance money.
The only saving grace, as I know from a case I worked on, is that as long as we make a payment plan with the doctors, hospital, rehab, etc., we can manage it all. But they still need money every month to make that happen.
Being an intern for the district attorney’s office was what I planned for all year. I saved money from my waitressing job to be sure I could afford a little apartment and my meager expenses for the summer. I got a full-ride academic scholarship to the University of Michigan, so I could save almost everything I made during the school year. Little did I know taking an unpaid internship—emphasis on unpaid—would leave me desperate and wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Hence the need to find paid employment that could fit around my work schedule.
Yeah, that didn’t exactly work out as planned.
I glance over now to see the man looking at me. His size is even more evident here inside the vehicle. He takes up the entire space behind the wheel with the seat pushed back as far as possible, and I wonder if I’ve just put myself in another position I will regret.
“Here.” He reaches into the back seat and pulls a suit jacket off a hanger, handing it to me. “Lean forward.”
I’m shivering, so I do as he asks, and his monstrous hands wrap the jacket around me as though I’m as delicate as a rose, then I settle back in the seat, wondering what the hell I’m going to do now.
I reach up and wince as my fingers touch the throbbing knot just above my temple where my head hit the street.
“Thanks,” I mumble, running my hands up and down my arms under the jacket. “I’m fine now. I’ll call an Uber. Or just drop me off somewhere I can go inside. I’ll find my way home.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No,” I half shout, then try to control my tone. “I’m fine. It’s a little bump, no hospital.” I shake my head, and it makes me dizzy.
He clears his throat as he puts the oddly quiet SUV into gear and begins to drive forward. His masculine scent is mixed with the unmistakable new-car smell as he turns up the heat, and the warm air blows around my feet.
“You hit your head. You need an X-ray at the very least.”
“Just, I can’t—”
“Can’t what?”
“I’m fine,” I try again, but I can see he’s having none of it, so I decide to try the truth. “I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford a hospital, and I’m really fine.” The pain in my head begs to differ, but having gone through all the bills from my father, I know what one simple emergency room visit is going to cost.
“Don’t worry about that. I hit you. You aren’t responsible for paying. I insist you go, and I’ll take care of any costs.” His tone darkens, and it makes me nervous, but in a way that feels exciting.
I chew on my bottom lip, trying to get a grip on this energy I feel between this stranger and me. For all I know, and with the day I’m having, he’s probably a serial killer.
But somehow, and maybe it’s the bump on my head, I can’t fight this odd attraction I feel toward my soon-to-be murderer.
We drive toward the hospital in silence, then after barely a minute, his hand comes over to take mine from my lap and my heart leaps. He looks over, and I see kindness in his dark eyes and feel warmth in his touch.
“You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
I nod, unsure what else to say or do, and my thoughts drift back to why I was running around in the rain in the first place.
After delivering the coffee to everyone yesterday morning at work, there was a bright spot when one of the paralegals came around my desk and asked me what was wrong. Her name is Nadine, she’s been decent with me since I started, and she’s easy to talk to. She’s the sort of person that tells you how pretty you are just to brighten your day like she’s not three steps higher up the ladder than me. So, feeling ready to snap and running on little sleep, I gave her the Reader’s Digest condensed version of what’s going on with my parents.