The Price Of Compassion

Isabella Garcia

Cleo hated when I canceled dates from the dating app she’d forced me to join. To her, finding love was the answer to all my problems.

I didn’t agree, but today, I was so drained that I decided to use it to my advantage.

“You’re canceling the date again?!” Cleo yelled from the room. She burst out, blue stockings muffling her hurried steps.

“I have to take Ethan for his checkup. It’s the first Saturday of the month.” I wiped our lunch glasses and tucked them into the bottom cabinet.

Normally, I wouldn’t tell Cleo when I planned to cancel. She would find out when she asked. But today, I wanted her to stop me.

Right on cue, she said, “I’ll take Ethan to the hospital.” She stood in the doorway, arms folded.

I glanced back, feigning surprise. “Oh, no. You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve canceled enough dates already.”

I sighed, closing the cabinet. “I can’t change your mind, can I?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “You can’t.” Grabbing my arm, she pulled me toward my room.

As expected, I had to endure her lecture. “You need to start dating. If you skip this one, everything we did to set up your profile will be wasted. You know I hate failing, hon.”

We passed the mirror near my closet, and the golden sun caught in Cleo’s lighter brown hair. She tugged off my bonnet and opened the wardrobe doors like we were hunting for treasure.

I groaned under my breath. If I could skip this whole part where I dressed up for a date I wasn't going for, my night would be perfect.

I tried convincing Cleo to leave my curls alone, but she spent thirty minutes rolling them anyway.

She asked me about my date and I had to lie instantly.

“He has a dog,” I said. “So he probably knows what it’s like to be a caregiver.”

“That’s good,” Cleo said, finishing the last curl. “But Ethan’s getting better. You won’t need to watch him so closely much longer.” She combed her fingers through my hair, making the curls bounce just above my shoulders.

“They’ve been saying that for years,” I replied. “He still hasn’t improved much.” I glanced at the door, knowing he was sleeping soundly in his room.

Cleo’s smile faltered. “And they said he wouldn’t make it to five, but here he is, about to turn seven.”

She was right. Despite his illness and the bitter battles with Terry, Ethan’s dad and my ex, Ethan was still here.

I nodded, holding on to the one thing I could afford: hope. As long as Ethan was fighting, I’d keep fighting too.

***

“Have fun, Isa!” Cleo called from the balcony.

Ethan was still asleep inside. Cleo was going to make dinner, wake him, and take him to his doctor’s appointment.

I, on the other hand, had lied about going on a date just to dodge it all. I needed a break from my life—just one day. Yet guilt weighed heavily on me.

Outside the cab window, the streetlights glowed, illuminating the evening’s soft blue haze. I thought about rolling the glass down to feel the air but decided against it. Keeping it shut made me feel invisible, like no one could see through me and my secret.

Cleo had lent me her maroon party dress—a stunning outfit for someone about to sit alone in a cheap diner and order the most basic meal imaginable. What a waste.

The cab pulled up in front of the building. I paid the fare, smoothed my hair, and stepped out. Instead of heading to a table, I made my way to the bathroom.

I stared at my reflection for a long moment, then decided to slip out through the back exit.

Dinner could wait. For now, I just wanted to breathe—no responsibilities, no expectations.

I silently thanked Cleo, my sister, for giving me this rare moment of freedom. Without her, I’d never get a break from taking care of Ethan.

Lost in thought, I reached into my purse for a cigarette but collided with something solid—a wall.

No, not a wall. A man.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his deep baritone words almost drowned out as he tried to sidestep me. But then I saw it.

Blood.

It soaked his rolled-up sleeve, staining the white fabric in an unmistakable splotch of red.

“You’re bleeding,” I said.

“I’m fine.” His voice was sharp, dismissive.

He tried to walk away, but his steps faltered. I reached for his hand, but he pulled back, blood dripping onto the pavement.

“You need a hospital. Do you have someone to help you?”

“I said I’m fine. Get out of my way.” His growl was low and warning.

Even in the dim light, I caught glimpses of him. Dark, disheveled hair hiding his eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the faint shadow of a mustache. His voice might’ve been harsh, but his presence was magnetic.

“I’m not letting you bleed to death,” I said firmly.

He raised his head then, and I froze. His eyes—icy, ash-silver—cut through me, questioning my motives.

When I reached for his arm again, he didn’t resist. My fingers brushed his blood as I carefully pushed back the sleeve.

“It’s a bullet wound,” he explained gruffly. “I’ll go home and have it taken care of.”

“Is the bullet still inside? You need to remove it.”

“I’ve called someone,” he said.

“How soon will they get here?” I glanced around the empty alley.

“Not quick enough,” he snapped.

“I can help,” I offered. “I just need alcohol, a clean blade, and towels.”

He let out a long sigh, his resistance faltering. “Can you drive? I’ve got what you need at home.”

Call me reckless, but I didn’t hesitate. I agreed, following a bleeding stranger with a bullet wound to his home.

So much for my quiet date night.

***

His car was parked a few blocks away, which made me raise an eyebrow. Still, I reminded myself not to judge. If anyone knew how easy it was to fall in with the wrong crowd, it was me.

He gave me directions, and I drove his black Audi for twenty minutes until we arrived at a fenced house with a sprawling yard. The gates slid open after he punched in a code.

Inside, he led me through his home, flipping on light switches as we passed the living room, kitchen, breakfast area, and a locked door before reaching the bathroom.

“I’ll grab the towels and alcohol,” he said, pressing his hand to the wound as he left.

When he returned, he carried more than expected: a first aid box, a bottle of spirit, and a clean white towel slung over his shoulder. He sat on the closed toilet seat, and I grabbed scissors to cut away the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt.

“Alcohol?” I asked.

He took a swig before handing the bottle to me. I poured it over the wound. “Brace yourself,” I warned, then started digging for the bullet.

He didn’t scream or flinch, just clenched his fist and let out a few quiet groans. When I finally removed the bullet, the bleeding worsened.

That’s when he decided to speak. “Are you a doctor?”

“I was going to be,” I replied, pressing a towel to the wound. “Had to drop out. Family problems. Hold this?”

He replaced my hand with his, and even the brush of his fingers sent an electric shiver through me. I rummaged through the first aid kit, grabbing cotton and gauze, then took a swig from the bottle myself. He watched silently, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Once he moved the towel, I cleaned the wound again and wrapped it carefully.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

“Because you were bleeding out.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

I wanted to say that helping someone didn’t require knowing their name—just like the doctor who once gave Ethan free medicine when we couldn’t pay the bill. Instead, I introduced myself.

“I’m Isabella. What’s your name?”

He hesitated before sighing. “Enzo. Nice to meet you, Isa.”

“Nice to meet you, Enzo. Now that you’ve told me, do you feel deserving of my help?”

“I guess so,” he said with a faint smirk, glancing at his bandaged arm.

With the wound tended to, I cleaned up the bathroom: rinsing the sink, tossing bloody towels, and snapping the first aid box shut.

Enzo stood, towering over me. “So, Isa. Are you married?”

The question caught me off guard. “No,” I said slowly.

“You’re lying. I would prefer it if you’re not a liar.”

“What?”

His cockiness was almost unbearable. “Women lie to me about their relationship status all the time and though it's cute, it is mostly their biggest mistake.” he said, pulling the chain around my neck to reveal a simple gold wedding band.

Enzo leaned in, inspecting the name etched on the ring. “If you’re not lying, who’s Ethan?”

Rage surged through me, fueled by his audacity.

This is what I was getting paid with after helping him.

“Ethan is my six-year-old son, who’s fighting for his life because of an immunodeficiency disorder. Ethan is my son, who I should be with right now instead of helping a stranger who calls me a liar. Ethan is my life, and that ring is my vow to him. So no, you’re not worthy of touching it!”

I yanked the ring from his grip and stepped back, tears streaking down my face. My hands trembled as I slammed the first aid box shut, the heavy silence between us almost unbearable.

Behind me, his steady breathing confirmed he was still there. I wished he’d leave—disappear and let me be.

I wished for a lot of things: for Ethan to get better, for a normal life, for Terry to stay out of it forever. But none of those wishes had ever come true.

Enzo wasn’t going anywhere. This was his house, after all, and I had already overstayed my welcome.