10

Marianna.

Alina Lindqvist.

In case you’re not a fan of motorsports, or if you’ve somehow managed to avoid the internet for the last five years, let me introduce you to Duane Richter’s public dating history. (And for the record, I haven’t been obsessively following his every move like a crazy fangirl; this information comes purely from Wikipedia, I swear.)

First, there was Sofia Adler, a fiercely competitive endurance driver. After they split, he briefly dated two high-profile influencers whose names blur together in a cloud of I*******m filters, VIP lanyards, and sponsored posts. And then he met the woman who seems to have been the most important to him: Alina Lindqvist. Their relationship has been notoriously on-and-off, providing endless fodder for the tabloids.

My primary takeaway from all of this data? He clearly has a very specific thing for tall, impossibly beautiful blondes.

Of course, knowing that intellectually doesn’t stop me from feeling a crushing, suffocating wave of insecurity the second I see her standing there.

She's even more beautiful in person, which seems cosmically, maliciously unfair. Tall—at least five-foot-ten, maybe more—with cheekbones that could cut glass and long legs that go on for approximately forever. She's wearing a white, tailored designer set, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders in perfect, effortless waves.

She is currently holding a crystal glass filled with Duane's expensive sparkling water, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows. At the sound of my wet, squeaky sneakers on the marble, she turns.

Her ice-blue eyes drop to my generic plastic grocery bag, then travel slowly, deliberately up my body. She stares at me like I'm a cockroach that just crawled out of her soup.

"Who are you?"

Her accent is Swedish, clipped and precise. 

"I—" My voice comes out as a squeak. I clear my throat, my face already burning with mortification. I try again. "I'm Marianna. Marco's sister. Marco Reyes? He's Duane's friend."

She doesn't say anything immediately. Instead, she takes a slow sip of her water, her eyes dragging over me once more. Taking in the oversized black hoodie—Duane's hoodie. The rolled-up grey joggers—Duane'sjoggers. The damp, chaotic nest of my unwashed hair. The red plastic handles of the Publix bag cutting off the circulation in my fingers. The general air of a "disaster human."

One perfect, arched eyebrow lifts.

"Marco Reyes," she repeats slowly, her tone dripping with bored condescension. "Right. I remember him. He's a bit... loud." 

She takes a few steps toward me, her designer heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She stops just a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something floral, expensive, and completely intimidating. "And you're... living here?"

"Just for a few days." I'm talking too fast, the words tumbling over each other as I desperately try to defend myself against the unspoken accusations in her stare. "My brother's out of town and I had nowhere to stay because the airline lost my luggage, and Duane offered to let me crash in the guest room until Marco gets back. It's totally platonic. We're not—I mean, there's nothing—"

I'm making this worse. I can feel myself making this worse with every desperate syllable that comes out of my mouth.

Alina's lips curl into something that's almost a smile but not quite. 

"Relax." She says the word like the very concept of me being stressed is beneath her. She waves her manicured hand dismissively. "I'm not worried."

"Oh. Good. Because there's really nothing—"

"I can see that."

She takes another step closer, her gaze dropping to the grocery bag I’m clutching to my chest like a shield. She leans in slightly, her eyes narrowing as she inspects the contents visible through the thin white plastic.

"Is that... store-brand peanut butter?" she asks, her voice a mixture of genuine disbelief and disgust, as if I've just brought radioactive waste into the penthouse.

"It's just some basic stuff," I mutter, shifting my weight, desperately wishing the marble floor would open up and swallow me whole. "For lunches."

Alina lets out a soft, breathy laugh. She reaches out with one hand—her nails are painted a flawless, glossy nude—and casually pinches the sleeve of the oversized hoodie I'm wearing. I freeze.

"This is Duane's," she states. It’s not a question. "The Monaco 2022 edition. He doesn't usually let people wear his things."

"I told you, the airline lost my suitcase," I say, my voice defensive, pulling my arm back slightly so her fingers fall away from the fabric. "He left some clothes out for me. Because I had nothing else to wear. That's it."

She hums, a low, dismissive sound in the back of her throat. She turns away from me, strolling over to the massive kitchen island and setting her crystal glass down on the pristine counter. She moves around the apartment with an easy, practiced grace, treating the space like she owns it. Like she belongs here, surrounded by all this grey marble and luxury, while I stand near the door like the hired help who accidentally wandered onto the main floor.

"So, you're the charity case for the week," Alina muses, leaning her hip against the counter. She crosses her arms, looking at me with cold amusement. "He always did have a soft spot for strays. It’s one of his more exhausting traits."

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself to hold my tongue. The plastic handles of the grocery bag feel like they are slicing through my skin.

"You're not exactly his type," she adds, her eyes doing one final, sweeping assessment of my appearance. It's not even delivered as an insult. Not really. It's just a statement of fact.

I'm not his type. And this woman—this statuesque, flawless, Swedish supermodel—is the exact his type.

"I know," I hear myself say, my voice embarrassingly quiet. "I wasn't suggesting—"

"Good." She picks up her phone from the counter, checking her screen, instantly bored with the conversation now that she’s established her absolute dominance. "Where is Duane?"

"I don't know. He wasn't here when I woke up."

She makes a sharp, irritated sound. Something between annoyance and disappointment. She taps her screen a few times, her perfect mouth pressing into a thin line.

I stand there for another agonizing ten seconds, clutching my frozen pizza and cheap bread, feeling approximately two inches tall.

"I'll just..." I gesture vaguely toward the dark hallway. Toward the guest room. Toward anywhere that's not here, pinned under the gaze of this impossibly beautiful woman who just effortlessly confirmed every single fear I've always had about myself.

She doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up from her phone as I finally break and shuffle past her toward the safety of the hallway.

I'm almost to the guest room door, my hand reaching for the handle, when her voice cuts through the quiet apartment.

"Don't get any ideas, Marianna."

I stop. I turn around slowly. She's looking up from her phone now.

"About Duane," she clarifies, her voice dropping to a low, warning register. "We're not done. We're neverdone."

I just nod. I can't summon a single word in my defense. I retreat into the guest room and quietly click the door shut behind me.

I set the groceries on the floor. I don't unpack them. I just sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.

I don't cry. I'm too tired to cry.

But I lie there in the grey room, surrounded by grey walls and grey sheets and the lingering scent of a man I can never, ever have, and I think:

This is rock bottom. This has to be rock bottom.

Please let this be rock bottom.