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2026-09-21 23:48:34Marianna
Festival day. 6:15 a.m. I've been awake since five.
The outfit took three days.
I landed on: white sleeveless blouse, tailored. Good jeans, the dark ones. White sneakers I cleaned with a toothbrush like a psychopath. Small gold hoops, my mother's.
And the hair
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Saved by Brother's Best Friend 145
MariannaFestival day. 6:15 a.m. I've been awake since five.The outfit took three days.I landed on: white sleeveless blouse, tailored. Good jeans, the dark ones. White sneakers I cleaned with a toothbrush like a psychopath. Small gold hoops, my mother's.And the hair — the hair I started at 5:40, diffuser, curl cream Jill left at my place, and Miami's humidity was at sixty-eight percent which is practically alpine, so by some miracle of barometric charity I got the good curls.I looked in the mirror at 6:50 and thought: okay. Okay. Not that girl anymore.I knew the odds of Duane even seeing me were maybe five percent. The drivers were doing show runs downtown; we were touring the paddock opera
Saved by Brother's Best Friend 144
MariannaThree things happened the morning after the dock, and then nothing happened for a year.Thing one: I woke up with a headache like the Fourth of July and lay in bed for an hour rewatching the night on the insides of my eyelids — director's cut, frame by frame, the jaw tick, the folded-into-thirds face. I knew I was never going to speak about it again. To anyone. Ever.Thing two: Marco left the house at 8 a.m. with his keys and no explanation and came back two hours later with split knuckles and a story about punching a wall at the gym. My brother has never voluntarily gone to the gym before ten in his life. Vale texted me a screenshot from her brother's finsta: Duane at MIA, boarding for Europe two days early, hood up, and — you had to zoom, and God help me, I zoomed — the corner of his mouth swollen.I never asked. Marco never offered. Puerto Rican omertà. He hugged me too long that night at dinner, said "he's an idiot, Nana" into my hair.Thing three — and this is the one I
Saved by Brother's Best Friend 143
MariannaWhile I'm crouched behind a roasted pig like a war criminal, let me tell you about the letter.It was 2015. I was fourteen.To set the scene: I had braces with alternating pink and teal bands, because I thought that was a personality. I had a Tumblr I updated like it was a second job. I owned a shirt that said LOVE in cursive across the chest. I was, in short, at the absolute height of my powers.And Duane Richter was seventeen, winning karting championships in Europe, and home for exactly nine days in August.I counted them, backwards, the way you count down to a launch. He was staying in our den on the pull-out couch. I understood pieces of — money moving around, a boarding arrangement near some racing academy in Italy, adults on phones with their voices lowered.For nine days, Duane Richter's toothbrush was in my bathroom. Blue. Angled in the cup toward mine like they were talking.I need you to understand I could not have survived that as a normal person. Nobody could hav
Saved by Brother's Best Friend 142
Seven years agoMariannaMiami in June doesn't care about your hair or your dignity.It's been ninety-one degrees since ten in the morning, the kind of heat that makes the asphalt look like it's breathing, and I've spent forty minutes in the bathroom with a diffuser and a prayer, and by eight p.m. my curls have achieved what my cousin Vale will later describe as "poodle in an electrical storm."I've given up fighting it. I've clipped one side back with a gold barrette I stole from my mother's drawer and decided that's a look.Besides, tonight is not about me.Tonight is about Marco.My brother is leaving for Tallahassee in six weeks.My mother has responded to this the way she responds to all news involving Marco: by cooking enough lechón to feed the entire 305 and inviting every human being we have ever exchanged eye contact with.String lights everywhere. And I'm standing by the blue cooler, holding a red Solo cup of Bacardi and Coke that is maybe eighty percent Bacardi, working up
Saved by Brother's Best Friend 141
Marianna POVThe reception is small and loud and goes until midnight.Oliver gives a speech that lasts fourteen minutes and references Monaco, the hip flexors, the metadata on the 2022 paddock photo, and concludes with: Duane texted me in May and said, and I quote: 'Marco's sister arrived. She's a problem.' I just want everyone to know that I knew, from that text, exactly what kind of problem she was. He sits down to applause he accepts with the modesty of someone who is not modest about it at all.Marco gives a speech that is four sentences long, which is either restraint or the Georgetown-trained recognition that some things land harder when they're shorter:She's my sister. She's the bravest person I know. She deserves everything that's happening right now. Duane—don't mess it up.Patrick, who is not asked to give a speech, gives a speech anyway, because Patrick has loosened his definition of appropriate contexts after a glass of champagne and a year of working with someone who subm
Saved by Brother's Best Friend 140
Marianna POVThe garden in Coconut Grove at four PM in April is doing everything it's supposed to do and a few things nobody planned.The jacaranda is blooming—not planned, just April being April—and the purple of it against the white of the gardenias is something that Patrick's weather matrix couldn't have predicted and that I'm going to remember for the rest of my life.The guests are: Marco, Jill, Oliver, McCartney, Torres, Patrick, Henri, Dr. Chen (who I invited because she kept the lights on and that counts for something), three Veloce team members including the mechanic with red hair, and approximately nobody else because this is not that kind of wedding.It is very much this kind of wedding.Oliver cries during
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