The Little Sparrow and the Foolish Heir

I was carrying a box of theater tiles when Celeste Rowe's SUV struck me outside the Mariner Theater. The box landed first. Blue-and-white ceramic shards scattered across the pavement, flashing in the afternoon sun. Then my left hip hit the ground, and my right hand caught my weight badly enough that pain shot through my wrist and up my arm. For a moment, I couldn't make a sound. The SUV stopped a few feet away. Its driver's door opened. "Oh my God, Mara." Celeste hurried toward me in cream trousers and a pale blue blouse, her dark hair pinned in the same glossy twist she'd worn at the Mercer Foundation luncheon that morning. "I didn't see you." I looked at the empty driveway behind me, then at the car. "You were looking at your phone." Her face tightened. "I was checking the address. I thought you were already inside." I tried to push myself upright. My wrist folded beneath me, and I sucked in a breath. "Don't move," she said, dropping to a crouch. Her hand hovered near my shoulder without touching me. "Adrian's on his way." "Why did you call Adrian?" "Because he's your fiancé." That answer landed harder than the pavement had. I'd called emergency services myself. The dispatcher had told me not to stand. Celeste had offered to drive me to the hospital, then insisted on calling Adrian before I could object. Now she knelt beside me, keeping her voice low while a couple of theater employees came running out. I heard one of them ask if she'd called an ambulance. "I did," I managed. Celeste's expression softened into concern so polished it might have been practiced. "I know. I just thought you'd want someone here." I did want someone there. I just hadn't wanted her choosing who. The ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes. I kept my eyes on the sky while the paramedics strapped my wrist and asked me to rate the pain. When they lifted me onto the stretcher, I saw Adrian's car pull to the curb. He got out so quickly that he left the driver's door open. His dark coat was unbuttoned, his hair wind-tossed. He looked first at Celeste, then at the shards on the ground, then at me. His expression changed. Not much. A pause, a crease between his brows, a step toward the stretcher. "Mara." "Hi, Adrian." "Are you hurt?" I glanced at the brace around my wrist. "The paramedics seem to think so." He flinched. "I'm sorry. I mean, how bad is it?" "They're taking me in for scans." Celeste moved to his side. "I didn't see her. I stopped as soon as I felt the bump." The paramedic asked Adrian if he was coming to the hospital. He said yes before I could answer. At Bellwether Medical, I sat in a curtained bay while a nurse took my blood pressure and cut away the sleeve of my jacket. Adrian stood near the doorway, answering a call from his family's foundation. Celeste sat in the chair beside him, hands folded in her lap. She'd come along in her own car. The radiologist took me for X-rays. The doctor came back with the results: a fractured wrist, badly bruised hip, no surgery needed. A hard brace, follow-up appointments, no lifting for six weeks. I listened carefully. I asked about the fracture. I asked about work. I asked how soon I could drive. Adrian said nothing until the doctor stepped out. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at me. "How much are the medical bills?" The room seemed to go quiet around that question. I looked at him, waiting for the rest of it. Are you scared? Do you need anything? Can I take you home? Nothing came. "I don't know," I said. "I can have the foundation cover it. Celeste's insurance may take a while to process, and we don't want you dealing with that." I turned my face toward the window. "I can deal with it." "Mara, I'm trying to help." "I know." The nurse came in with discharge instructions. Adrian took the papers from her, then handed them to me. Celeste stood and smoothed the front of her blouse. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I really am." I nodded because there was no answer that would make the room feel less strange. Adrian drove me home. Celeste left before us, saying she'd call tomorrow. He carried my bag to my apartment and set it on the kitchen counter. I sat on the edge of the sofa, trying to work out how to take off my shoes with one hand. "Let me," he said. I watched him kneel. His fingers were careful around my ankle. I loved those hands. I had once imagined them fastening a wedding ring onto mine. "Why did you ask about the bill?" I said. He looked up. "Because I wanted to take care of it." "You asked how much it cost." "I was trying to make sure you wouldn't have to worry." "That isn't the same as asking if I'm all right." He sat back on his heels. "I am asking now." I couldn't tell whether the words came because he understood or because I'd pointed out the missing ones. "I'm tired," I said. He rose and set my shoes by the door. "I'll stay." "No." His gaze searched my face. "You're sure?" "I'm sure." He hesitated, then leaned down and kissed my forehead. I let him. When the door closed behind him, I sat in the quiet apartment with my wrist throbbing and the engagement ring pressing against my finger. I had the first thought clearly then. I didn't want Adrian to pay my bill. I wanted him to know why I was alone.