I sank onto my parents’ couch, the same floral-print monstrosity that had been here since I was twelve. The cushions dipped in familiar places, and the room still smelled faintly of my mother’s sandalwood candles and the dal she’d stress-cooked earlier. Family photos watched from every surface—me at graduations, Priya’s wedding, all of us from a vacation to India I barely remembered.
“How did you... who told you?” I managed, emotionally drained from another day of medical conversations and insurance calls.
I’d texted him Sunday to cancel our call, no details. When he’d asked if everything was okay, I’d lied and said yes.
“Glitch.” His voice was gentle, careful. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m...” I started to say fine, then stopped. “I’m scared. And tired. And trying to hold my family together when I can barely hold myself together.”
“Where are you?”
“San Diego. My parents’ house.”
“Do you need anything? Someone to talk to, help with arrangements, anything at all?”
The offer was so unexpected that I almost started crying again. “Jacob, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me.”
After we hung up, I sat in the dark living room thinking about the responses I’d gotten. When I’d texted Vaughn about the emergency, he’d sent back condolences and offered to pick me up from the airport when I returned, followed by flowers sent to my parents’ house with a sweet note—thoughtful and exactly what I’d expect from someone I was casually dating.
Jacob had called, asked what I needed, offered concrete help despite not having a solid place in my life, despite knowing he was probably second place to another man.
Two men, two approaches. Both appropriate for the level of relationship we had. But only one had made me feel truly supported.
Dad stabilized over the next couple of days. The doctors seemed cautiously optimistic. I was starting to think we might be through the worst of it when Thursday’s healthcare update changed everything.
“The insurance company is being difficult about the cardiac catheterization,” Dr. Oakley explained. “It’s experimental, but it could prevent another attack. Without it...”
“How much?” Priya asked.
“Out of pocket? Probably sixty thousand.”
My mother went pale. My parents were comfortable but not wealthy. Sixty thousand dollars was mortgage-payment money, retirement-fund money.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, though I had no idea how. “Whatever it takes.”
That evening, I called Jacob just to hear a familiar voice. Someone outside the crisis who could remind me that the world still existed beyond hospital walls and insurance forms.
“How’s your father?” he asked.
“Better, but they want to do this procedure that insurance won’t cover.” I explained about the catheterization, the cost, my family’s dilemma.
“Sixty thousand,” Jacob repeated. “When do they need the money?”
“By Monday if we want to schedule it for next week.”
“I’ll wire the money tomorrow. Give me the hospital information.”
I sat up straighter on the couch. “Jacob, no. I wasn’t asking for—”
“I know you weren’t asking. I’m offering. Your father needs the procedure, you need your father to be okay, so the money isn’t a question.”
“That’s not how this works. I can’t accept sixty thousand dollars from you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too much. Because it feels like... I don’t know, like you’re trying to buy your way back into my life.”
