37

Marianna.

The bus ride back to Duane's building takes thirty-seven minutes.

I know this because I count the stops. All fourteen of them. It's something to do besides think. Besides feel. Besides exist in this body that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

My stomach growls somewhere around stop number eight. A loud, embarrassing sound that makes the woman next to me glance over with the particular Miami expression of I'm judging you but I'm too polite to say it.

I should eat something.

I can't remember the last time I ate something.

Yesterday? The protein bar before Dr. Hartley's session? Before his hands—

My stomach growls again, but the thought of food makes my throat close up.

The bus stops. I get off. Walk the three blocks to Duane's building on autopilot, my legs moving without input from my brain.

Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

See? Easy. Anyone can do it. Even hollow puppets who used to be people.

The elevator requires the key card. I have the key card. I use the key card. The doors open. I step inside. The doors close.

I watch myself in the polished metal reflection—this grey-faced creature in a Kinetic polo, dark circles visible even through the concealer, eyes that look like someone turned off the lights behind them.

Who is she?

The thought drifts through my head like smoke. Disconnected. Curious.

I don't know her.

The elevator dings. The doors open. I walk into the apartment.

It's quiet. Empty. Grey.

Good.

I need to shower. Need to wash off this day, this week, this life. Need to stand under water hot enough to scald and pretend I can feel something besides this static humming under my skin.

The water is hot. Too hot. Perfect.

I stand under it until my skin turns pink, until the steam fills my lungs, until I can almost convince myself that I'm real, that I'm here, that I'm not just a ghost haunting someone else's apartment.

My mind is... quiet. Not peaceful-quiet. Empty-quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when you've been screaming inside your own head for so long that your internal voice just gives up.

Nothing happened, the quiet whispers. You're overreacting.

Maybe I am.

Maybe Dr. Hartley was just teaching.

Maybe I'm the problem.

Maybe I've always been the problem.

I turn off the water. Wrap myself in a towel. Wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at the face that stares back.

She looks tired. She looks empty.

Hi, I think at her.

She doesn't answer.

I pull on clothes. Take a breath. Open the bathroom door.

And nearly walk directly into Duane Richter.

He's standing right there. Right in the hallway. Like he's been waiting, which is insane, because why would he be waiting, why would he—

"Hi," I say.

My voice comes out flat. Dead. A single syllable with all the emotional resonance of a dial tone.

Something shifts in his face. That micro-expression thing he does, the one where you can tell he's feeling something but he's so determined not to show it that it just looks like constipation.

"Marianna."

"That's me."

I move to step around him. He doesn't move. His body blocks the hallway like a wall of muscle and expensive cologne and whatever the fuck his problem is today.

"Did you hear me?"

I blink. "What?"

"I called your name." His voice is tight. Controlled. "Three times. From the living room. You walked right past me."

Did I?

I don't remember. I don't remember anything between the elevator and the shower. It's all just... grey. Static. White noise where memory should be.

"Sorry," I say. "I was distracted."

"Distracted." He says the word like it's an accusation.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"Okay, I'm not fine. Does it matter?"

His jaw tightens. That's a new expression.

"What's going on with you?" His hand closes around my arm. Not hard. Not bruising. Just... stopping me. Anchoring me in place when all I want to do is float away.

I look at his hand on my arm. Look at his face. Try to summon the energy to feel something—anger, irritation, desire, anything.

Nothing. I'm empty.

"I'm just tired, Duane. It was a long day. Can I please go to my room and collapse now?"

"Who's Josh?"

"What?"

"Josh." He says it like the word tastes bad. "Your phone's been buzzing."

My phone?

Josh has been texting me?

Duane reaches into his pocket. Pulls out the cracked iPhone—the one he gave me, the one that's technically his property anyway. Hands it to me with an expression that's somewhere between neutral and murderous.

I look at the screen.

Josh: Mari, we need to talk.

Josh: I made a mistake. A huge mistake. Melissa meant nothing.

Josh: I miss you. I miss us. I miss coming home to you.

Josh: Remember when we first moved in together? How happy we were? We can get that back.

Josh: Please. Just give me another chance.

Josh: I love you.

I stare at the messages. Read them once. Twice. Three times.

The words don't make sense. They're arranged in sentences, grammatically correct, but my brain refuses to process them as anything meaningful.

"He's my ex-boyfriend," I hear myself say. My voice sounds far away. Like it's coming from someone else's mouth. "I mentioned him. When I first got here. He's the reason I—"

"I know who he is." Duane's voice is sharp. Harder than before. "I'm asking if you're getting back together."

I look up at him. At his face, all hard angles and barely contained tension. At his eyes, dark and unreadable but somehow also burning.

"What?"

"You've been walking around like a zombie. " His hand is still on my arm, grip tightening almost imperceptibly. "And now your ex-boyfriend is texting you about how much he misses living with you. So I'm asking—is that what this is? Are you missing your little boyfriend and your cozy apartment so much that you've completely checked out?"

Everything about this conversation is wrong.

"You think I miss Josh. That's your theory."

"What else am I supposed to think?" He's still holding my arm.

His jaw works. He doesn't answer.

"For the record," I say, and my voice is cold now, ice-cold, the voice of someone who has nothing left to lose, "I'm not missing Josh. I'm not pining for our 'cozy apartment.' I'm not dreaming about our beautiful memories together."

"Then—"

"You want to know about our beautiful memories?" The words are coming faster now, sharp and bitter, pouring out of some reservoir I didn't know I had. "Here's one. The first night we moved in together—the first night, Duane, when everything was supposed to be perfect and romantic and whatever the fuck people expect from that milestone—he tried to have sex with me. And I couldn't—I couldn't—"

I stop. Breathe.

His hand is still on my arm.

"He said I was like a wooden board," I finish. The words taste like ash. "Lying there. Not responding. Apparently, that's not what men want in a partner. So if you're worried I'm going to run back to him and his opinions about my performance in bed, you can relax. I'm not. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you satisfied now?"

Silence.

Complete, devastating silence.

Duane is staring at me. His face has done something complicated—the micro-expressions shifting through surprise, confusion, something that might be horror, something that might be understanding, something I can't name and don't want to.

His grip on my arm loosens. Not releasing. Just... gentler.

"Marianna—"

"I'm tired." My voice cracks. Just a little. Just enough to betray me. "I'm really, really tired, Duane. So unless you have more questions about my ex-boyfriend's opinion of my sexual inadequacy, I'd like to go to bed now."

I pull my arm free.

He lets me.