39

Marianna.

"I'm not what?" I prompt.

"Broken," he says finally. "You're not broken."

The word hits me.

Because I am broken. I know I am. Every boyfriend has confirmed it. Every failed attempt at normal human intimacy has proven it.

"Thank you," I whisper.

It's all I can manage.

"He was wrong," Duane continues, and now the words are coming faster. "Josh. He was wrong. And any man who says a woman is rigid or unresponsive or any of that shit—they're just advertising their own incompetence."

I stare at him.

Duane Richter—three-time world champion, emotional unavailability incarnate, the man who told me I'm not his type—is standing in my room at 3 AM giving me a speech about sexual competence.

"That's..." I search for words. "That's really nice of you to say."

"It's not nice. It's accurate."

"Still. Thank you." I swallow hard. "He was right, though. I am... I can't... I'm just not good at that stuff."

The confession hangs in the air between us. Heavy. Humiliating.

Duane's expression does something complicated.

"He was shit in bed, wasn't he?" Duane says. "Your ex."

"I—what?"

"Men who blame women for their own shortcomings are usually shit in bed." He says it so matter-of-factly. Like he's discussing weather patterns. "It's easier to call a woman frigid than to admit you don't know what you're doing."

"That's a theory."

"It's a fact."

I sip the tea. I don't know what to do with this level of thoughtfulness. It doesn't fit with everything I know about him.

"I should let you sleep," Duane says.

"Wait."

He stops.

I don't know what I'm asking for. Don't know what I want. Just know that the thought of him leaving—of being alone again with my insomnia and my thoughts and the grey ceiling that judges me—is suddenly unbearable.

"Could you..." I start. Stop. This is insane. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing. It's stupid."

"Marianna." His voice is gentle. It's so wrong on him, this gentleness. Like watching a wolf try to do ballet. "What do you need?"

I need you to make it stop. I need you to make my brain shut up. I need you to tell me I'm not ruined.

"Could you just... stay for a bit?" The words come out small. Pathetic. "I can't sleep and I'm tired of being alone with my thoughts and—"

I don't get to finish.

Because Duane walks back into the room. Stands there for a long moment, clearly having some kind of internal crisis. Then, he sits down.

On the floor.

Next to the bed.

Duane Richter, billionaire F1 world champion, is sitting on the floor of his own guest room like some kind of emotional support human.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Staying." He leans his back against the bed, close enough that I can see him but far enough that we're not touching. "Until you fall asleep."

We sit in silence. It's not comfortable exactly, but it's not awful either. It's something in between. Something undefined.

"Duane?"

"Mm."

"That thing you said. About men blaming women for their own incompetence."

"Yeah?"

I take a breath. "It's not just Josh. It's been... everyone. Every guy I've ever been with. They all eventually get frustrated because I can't—I don't—" The words stick in my throat like broken glass. "My body doesn't work right. It just freezes. Like I'm not even there. Like I'm watching from outside and my body's this separate thing that won't cooperate."

More silence.

Then: "Have you talked to anyone about it?"

"You mean like a therapist?"

"Yes."

"No." I laugh, but it sounds hollow. "Therapy costs money. And also requires admitting there's something wrong with me, which I'm already very aware of, thank you."

"There's nothing wrong with you."

"Duane—"

"There's not." His voice is hard now. Certain. "Your body is responding to something. Maybe something you're not even aware of. But that doesn't make you broken. It makes you human."

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.

But I've spent twenty-three years in this body. I know what it is. I know what it can't do.

"You don't have to say that," I whisper. "To make me feel better."

He turns then. Looks at me over his shoulder with those dark, unfathomable eyes.

"I don't say things to make people feel better, Marianna. I say what's true."

And before I can process that—before I can figure out what it means or how to respond—he stands up.

I think he's leaving. But he doesn't leave.

He walks around to the other side of the bed. The side I'm not on.

"What are you—"

He lies down. "Sleep," he says. Like it's an order. Like my body has any obligation to obey him. "Try."

His arm comes around me. Over the covers, over my body, heavy . Anchoring me to the bed, to the moment, to something real.

I feel... safe. Which is insane.

But his heartbeat is steady against my back. His breathing is even.

"Duane?"

"Mm."

"Thank you."

He doesn't respond. Just tightens his arm fractionally. Like a promise. Like an anchor.

Like maybe, just maybe, I'm not as alone as I thought.

I close my eyes.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, I fall asleep.

I wake up to sunlight and the absence of Duane.

He's gone—the bed next to me is empty, the covers neat, like he was never there at all. For a second I wonder if I hallucinated the whole thing. The tea, the apology, the lying down next to me like some kind of Victorian gentleman who's read exactly one chapter of a romance novel and is trying his best.

But the mug is still on the nightstand. Empty now, but present. Proof.

I check my phone. 7:15 AM.

Shit. I need to be at Kinetic in forty-five minutes.

I drag myself out of bed, feeling simultaneously better and worse than yesterday. Better because I actually slept. Worse because now I have to face the world instead of hiding in Duane's guest room forever.

Shower. Clothes. The Kinetic polo that I'm starting to hate because it represents everything complicated about my life right now.

I emerge from the bedroom to find Duane in the kitchen, fully dressed in jeans and a black button-down, looking like he's about to attend a funeral or possibly commit a very stylish murder.

"Morning," I say.

He looks up from his coffee. "Morning."

This is excruciating. We're doing that thing where you pretend the vulnerable thing from last night didn't happen. The emotional reset. The mutual agreement to never speak of it again.

I'm fine with this. This is my comfort zone.

"I made coffee," he says, nodding toward the machine.

"Thanks."

I pour myself a cup. We exist in awkward silence.

"I'm driving you to work," he announces.

I nearly drop my mug. "What?"

"I'm driving you." Like it's obvious. Like this is a normal thing that happens.

"Duane, you don't have to—"

"I have a meeting there anyway."

I freeze. "At Kinetic?"

"Yes."

"With who?"

He takes a long sip of his coffee. Doesn't answer immediately. Which is never a good sign.

"Dr. Hartley," he says finally. "About my shoulder rehabilitation program."

The world tilts.

No.

No no no no—

"You..." I can't form words. "You have a meeting with Dr. Hartley?"

"Yes." His eyes find mine. Hold.

My hands start shaking. The coffee sloshes in the mug.

He knows?

"I don't—I can't—"

"Marianna." He sets down his own mug. Steps closer.

My hands are shaking.

"Breathe," Duane says.

I try. Fail. Try again.