When I opened my eyes, a stranger was kneeling beside me.
He was wearing a black suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his expression was filled with an urgency that made me wonder whether something terrible had happened.
Then I realized I was lying on the pavement.
My right knee hurt.
My shoulder throbbed.
And there was a black luxury car stopped less than three feet away.
"Can you hear me?"
The stranger's voice was low and controlled.
I blinked.
"What?"
"Don't try to stand up."
He glanced toward someone behind him.
"Tell the dispatcher she's conscious. She's breathing normally, but she may have hit her head."
A security guard was speaking into a phone.
The stranger turned back toward me.
"My name is Alexander. What's yours?"
"Maya."
"Okay, Maya. Help is coming."
I looked down at my dress.
The beautiful blue fabric was dirty.
One of the thin straps had slipped from my shoulder.
My silver purse lay beneath the car's front bumper.
I stared at it.
Then, for reasons I couldn't explain, I started crying.
Not because of the pain.
Not because of the accident.
Because twenty-three minutes earlier, I had caught Marcus kissing another woman.
And somehow, even after being hit by a car, that was still the thing that hurt most.
The stranger's expression softened.
"Where does it hurt?"
I pressed a hand against my chest.
"He was kissing someone else."
Alexander looked at me for a moment.
Then he removed his suit jacket and gently draped it over my shoulders.
"Then he doesn't deserve you."
I stared at him.
It was such a strange thing to say.
A complete stranger had just hit me with his car, and he was the first man that evening to act as though my pain mattered.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Alexander looked toward the street.
"Stay with me, Maya."
I wanted to tell him that I wasn't going anywhere.
Instead, I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I was inside an ambulance.
A paramedic was checking my blood pressure.
Alexander stood just outside the open doors, speaking to another paramedic.
"I was driving slowly," he said. "She stepped into the street. I braked, but I couldn't stop in time."
His voice sounded strained.
"Please make sure she gets everything she needs."
The paramedic nodded.
"We're taking her to Northwestern Memorial."
Alexander looked toward me.
"May I come to the hospital?"
I stared at him.
Why would he want to?
He had already called for help.
He could have handed everything over to his insurance company and disappeared.
But something in his expression made me nod.
"Okay."
He stepped back as the ambulance doors closed.
Then I heard him say something to the security guard.
"Make sure her friend knows where she's going."
My friend.
Tasha.
I had forgotten about Tasha.
I reached for my phone.
It wasn't there.
The paramedic touched my arm.
"Your belongings are being collected. We'll get them to you."
I closed my eyes again.
By the time we reached the hospital, my headache had become a steady pounding behind my eyes.
The emergency department was bright and crowded.
A nurse asked me questions.
What year was it?
Where was I?
Did I remember what happened?
I answered as best I could.
Then someone asked whether there was a family member they should contact.
I almost said Marcus.
The name rose automatically to my lips.
Four years of habit.
Four years of believing that when something terrible happened, he would be the person I called.
Instead, I said, "Tasha Williams."
The nurse wrote it down.
"Anyone else?"
I shook my head.
The answer frightened me more than I expected.
I had built so much of my life around Marcus that I had forgotten how small my world had become.
A doctor examined my shoulder and knee, checked my neurological responses, and ordered imaging.
I had bruises, a sprained shoulder, and a mild concussion.
Nothing appeared broken.
I was lucky.
That was what everyone kept telling me.
Lucky.
The word felt strange.
My birthday party had ended with betrayal and an ambulance ride.
But apparently, I was lucky.
An hour later, Tasha burst into my hospital room.
Her mascara was smudged.
Her hair was falling out of its carefully arranged curls.
She looked as though she had run the entire distance from the restaurant.
"Maya!"
She rushed to my bedside.
"Oh my God."
"I'm okay."
"You're in a hospital."
"I noticed."
She laughed once, then started crying.
I reached for her hand.
"I'm okay, Tash."
She looked at the bandage on my knee.
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
"I'll try not to get hit by any more cars."
"Not funny."
"A little funny."
She shook her head.
Then her expression changed.
"Marcus called me."
My stomach tightened.
"What did he say?"
"He wanted to know where you went."
I stared at her.
"That's all?"
"He said you were being dramatic."
I looked away.
Tasha's voice hardened.
"I told him you were in the hospital."
I waited.
"What did he say?"
"He asked whether you were seriously hurt."
I swallowed.
"And?"
"He said he was in the middle of something and would call later."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Then I laughed.
It was a terrible sound.
Tasha squeezed my hand.
"Don't waste another tear on him."
I nodded.
But I couldn't stop the tears.
A quiet knock interrupted us.
Alexander stood in the doorway.
He had changed into a clean white shirt, but his tie was gone, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
He held my silver purse in one hand.
"I hope I'm not interrupting."
Tasha turned.
"Who are you?"
He looked directly at her.
"Alexander Whitmore. I was driving the car."
Her expression became dangerous.
"You hit my best friend?"
"Yes."
He didn't make excuses.
He didn't blame me.
He simply stood there and accepted the anger in her voice.
"I'm very sorry."
Tasha folded her arms.
"She's lucky she wasn't killed."
"I know."
Something about his answer made her pause.
Alexander approached my bedside.
"I wanted to return your purse."
He placed it on the small table.
"And make sure you're receiving proper care."
"The doctors have been wonderful," I said.
"I'm glad."
He hesitated.
"May I ask how you're feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a car."
His mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
"Fair enough."
Tasha looked between us.
"Are you Alexander Whitmore from Whitmore Capital?"
He nodded.
I turned toward her.
"Should I know what that means?"
She stared at me.
"Maya."
"What?"
"He's a billionaire."
I looked back at Alexander.
He seemed uncomfortable with the announcement.
"That doesn't change what happened tonight," he said.
"No," I replied. "It doesn't."
He nodded.
"You're right."
Then he took a business card from his pocket.
"My personal number is on the back. If you need anything related to the accident, please contact me directly."
I looked at the card.
"Your insurance company will probably handle it."
"They will. But I wanted you to have a way to reach me."
Tasha examined him suspiciously.
"Why?"
Alexander looked at me.
"Because I was behind the wheel."
For the first time that night, someone had taken responsibility without trying to make me feel guilty.
I didn't know what to do with that.
After he left, Tasha sat beside my bed.
"Well."
"What?"
"That was unexpected."
"He's just being responsible."
"Maybe."
She glanced toward the door.
"But he looked at you like he was afraid to leave."
I rolled my eyes.
"Tasha."
"I'm just saying."
"Please don't turn my car accident into a romance novel."
She smiled.
"Fine."
Then she picked up my phone.
"Your boyfriend has called three times."
I stared at the screen.
Three missed calls.
Two messages.
The first read:
Are you really in the hospital?
The second:
Call me when you stop ignoring me.
I looked at Tasha.
"Block him."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Are you sure?"
I thought about the woman in the red dress.
Marcus calling after her.
His concern for his reputation.
The fact that he had not come to the hospital.
"Yes."
Tasha handed me the phone.
"Then you do it."
I opened Marcus's contact.
For a moment, my thumb hovered over his name.
Four years.
Thousands of photographs.
Plans for a future I had believed was real.
Then I pressed Block Contact.
Tasha wrapped her arms around me.
And for the first time that night, I cried because I was finally letting him go.
I didn't notice the folded piece of paper tucked beneath Alexander's business card until the next morning.
It contained only one handwritten sentence.
You shouldn't have to face the worst night of your life alone.
Underneath was his name.
Alexander.
I stared at the note for a long time.
Then I put it inside my purse.
I had no idea that the man who had nearly killed me would soon become the person who helped me remember how to live.