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“You don’t pity me, do you?” he asked.
“Honey, I feel for you, and I’m here to help. But pity? I don’t have the time.”
That became our rhythm. He snapped. I snapped back. Eventually, he let me help.
One afternoon, while I repaired the brake on his chair, he asked, “Was Lisa in college?”
“Community college. She loved it.”
“What did she study?”
“Everything. Nursing, design, psychology, then accounting because numbers made sense. She was still choosing.”
He almost smiled.
“She once bought a yellow raincoat keychain because she said it looked emotionally supportive. She would have argued with you like crazy, Adrian.”
He dropped his spoon.
His face had gone pale. “A yellow raincoat?”
I stared at him. “Yes.”
“Was it hanging from her car mirror?”
My hand froze on the chair brake.
“Adrian, how did you know that?”
He turned his chair toward the window. “Lucky guess.”
“No,” I said. “Nobody guesses a yellow raincoat keychain hanging from a car mirror.”
The hospital called before he answered.
Just like that, Adrian got to keep his secret a little longer.
I stepped into the hallway.
Dr. Evans’ voice came through low and careful. “Lisa’s rehab spot can only be held until tomorrow morning.”
I closed my eyes. “You said Friday.”
“I tried to extend it.”
“Then tell me what happens if I can’t pay.”
“She’ll be transferred to a lower-level long-term care facility.”
My hand tightened around the phone. “So she stays alive, but loses the program that might help her wake up.”
“I wish I had another answer.”
“So do I,” I said.
I hung up before I cried in Adrian’s hallway.
The next morning, I arrived at his house with my hands shaking so badly I burned his toast.
“You’re smoking up the kitchen,” Adrian said.
“I’ll make more.”
“Kirsten. You’re crying.”
He rolled closer. “Is it Lisa?”
That broke me.
“They’re moving her,” I said. “Not to rehab, like I hoped. Somewhere that can keep her stable, but not give her what she needs.”
“How much?”
“Don’t.”
How much, Kirsten?”
“Too much. More than I can make. More than I can borrow. More than I can beg without losing the last piece of myself.”
Adrian looked down at his hands.
Then he said, “Marry me.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Marry me, Kirsten.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re twenty.”
“I know.”
“I’m forty-three. I’m your employee.”
“I can hire someone else.”
“You are grieving, injured, lonely, and angry at oatmeal. That is not a proposal. That is panic with paperwork.”
His jaw flexed. “I’m not asking for romance.”
“That makes it worse, honey.”
“Vivian controls most of my trust until I’m twenty-one. She refuses what she calls emotional spending.”
“Lisa isn’t emotional spending.”
“I know.” His voice dropped. “My personal medical account and household fund are separate from the main trust. Vivian can delay almost anything I request alone. But if I’m married, my spouse can co-sign emergency medical expenses with me. She can still fight it, but she cannot bury it quietly.”
I stepped back. “No.”
“Kirsten.”
“No. I won’t marry a man for money, especially one with his entire life ahead of him. You deserve more, Adrian. You deserve to live.”
“You wouldn’t be using me.”
“Yes, I would.”