25

Marianna.

I'm leaving.

Tonight.

I have $14 in my checking account, but my first paycheck comes in two weeks. There are Airbnbs in Miami for $40 a night—sketchy ones, sure, the kind with reviews that mention "character" and "authentic experience" and "minor cockroach situation"—but I have a credit card with maybe $300 of available balance. I can survive for two weeks on ramen and spite.

I cannot survive another night in that apartment.

The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. The key card feels heavier in my hand. The hallway feels narrower, like the walls are closing in, like the grey marble is judging me for ever thinking I belonged here.

The apartment is empty when I walk in.

Good. I don't want to see him. Don't want to have to pretend I'm fine, that this is fine, that any part of this situation is within screaming distance of fine.

I just want to pack my nothing and leave.

The guest room looks exactly the same as it did this morning. Grey walls. Grey sheets. The faint lingering scent of his laundry detergent on the clothes I've been wearing, the hoodie I've been living in, the pieces of him I've wrapped around myself like armor.

I need to stop wearing his clothes.

I need to stop breathing his air.

I need to get the fuck out of this apartment before I lose whatever remains of my mind.

I don't have a suitcase—thanks, American Airlines, for that particular gift—so I grab a plastic bag from under the bathroom sink. The one from Target.

Into it goes:

My original underwear (washed, dried, tragic)；The sundress from the airport (still slightly damp in places)；The cracked iPhone (his, technically, but I need it)；My wallet (containing $14 and a debit card linked to an account that's basically a cry for help)

That's it. That's everything I own in Miami.

Five days of my life, reduced to a single plastic bag.

I look around the room one last time. The king-sized bed I slept in. The bathroom with the rainfall shower. The view of Miami through floor-to-ceiling windows that probably cost more than my education.

None of it was ever mine.

I knew that. I always knew that. But knowing something and feeling it are different things, and right now, standing here with my plastic bag of possessions, I feel it. The full weight of my own impermanence. The complete, devastating clarity of exactly where I stand in Duane Richter's life.

Nowhere.

I stand nowhere.

I'm halfway to the elevator when I hear it.

The ding.

The doors sliding open.

Footsteps.

Duane rounds the corner and stops.

We stare at each other across the length of the hallway. Him in his black athletic clothes, fresh from whatever important F1 thing he was doing. Me in his stolen hoodie, clutching a Target bag like it's the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

"What are you doing?"

His voice is flat. Controlled. The same voice he used this morning when he told them to get him someone else.

I straighten my spine. Force my face into something resembling calm.

"I'm leaving."

"What?"

"Leaving." I say it slower, like he's having trouble with the concept. "Departing. Vacating the premises. Removing myself from your space so you don't have to deal with my presence anymore."

Something shifts in his expression. Too fast to read.

"I want to thank you," I continue, my voice steady despite the earthquake happening inside my chest. "For letting me stay here this week. It was very generous. I know it wasn't easy, having someone in your space, someone you didn't want here. Someone who—" I swallow. Keep going. "Someone who clearly makes you uncomfortable."

"Marianna—"

"I have a job now. I can afford my own place. Well—" A laugh escapes me,"And I won't be your problem anymore."

I move toward the elevator. Past him. Just need to get past him and this will be over—

His hand closes around my arm.

Not hard. But firm. Unmovable.

"Where exactly are you planning to go?"

"There are Airbnbs—"

"With what money?"

The question hits me like a slap.

"I have—" I start, but he's already talking over me.

"Fourteen dollars. That's what you have." His eyes are dark, boring into mine. "I saw the Wendy's receipt in the trash. You spent almost thirty dollars on fast food and you have fourteen dollars left to your name."

Heat floods my face. Shame and rage in equal measure.

"You went through my trash?"

"It was on the counter."

"You—" I yank my arm free. Step back. "You have no right. No right to comment on my finances, or my choices, or anything about my life. You made it very clear this morning that you want nothing to do with me, so—"

"The Airbnbs you can afford are in dangerous neighborhoods."

The sudden change in topic throws me.

"What?"

"Forty dollars a night in Miami." His voice is hard. Cold. But there's something underneath it now, something I can't identify. "That's Overtown. Little Haiti. Parts of Liberty City that tourists never see. Do you know what the crime rate is in those areas? Do you know what happens to young women who—"

"Oh, so now you care about my safety?" I laugh, and it sounds unhinged. Probably because I am unhinged. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to treat me like garbage and then pretend you're worried about me. That's not how this works. You can't have it both ways, Duane. "

"I'm not letting you leave."

"You don't get to let me do anything. I'm not your property. "

"You're Marco's sister." His jaw tightens.

"You think I don't know?" I continue, momentum carrying me forward like a train with no brakes. "You think I don't understand exactly where I rank in your world? Somewhere between an inconvenience and a charity case. Something to be tolerated because your friend asked nicely. I get it."

He doesn't answer.

I turn toward the elevator again. My vision is blurring, which is infuriating, because I am not going to cry in front of him again. I am not going to give him that.

He moves faster than I expect.

One second I'm walking away. The next I'm against the wall, his hands on either side of my head, his body blocking my escape.

We're close.

Too close.

Close enough that I can see the individual striations in his irises. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his chest rises and falls, faster than usual, like something is slipping past his famous control.

"You think I want this?"

His voice is low. Rough. Barely more than a whisper.

"You think I enjoy watching you walk around in my clothes? Smelling like my soap? Sleeping in my guest room while I'm—" He stops. Breathes.

I don't understand. I don't understand anything that's happening right now.

"Duane—"

"I won't be here."

"What?"

"This month." He's still too close. Still pinning me without touching me, his presence a physical weight. "Monaco next week. Canada after that. Then back to Europe for the triple-header. I won't be in Miami. I won't be in this apartment. You don't need to leave."

I stare at him.

"Stay." The word comes out sharp. Almost angry. He steps back fully. Creates space between us. The mask is sliding back into place, the cold control returning. "Marco asked me to look after you. I'm fulfilling that obligation. Nothing more."

Nothing more.

Right.

Of course.