43

Marianna.

The thing about lidocaine is that it's a liar.

They tell you it's going to numb everything. They inject it into your forehead—sharp pinch, burning spread, the specific sensation of liquid being forced under your skin where liquid has no business being—and they say "give it a minute" like time is all you need to stop feeling things.

I can feel the pressure. The needle going in. The thread pulling through.

Dr. Morrison is narrating as he works. Probably a teaching habit. Probably something he does for all his high-profile athletes so they understand what's happening to their million-dollar bodies.

"I'm using a layered closure technique," he says. His voice is calm. Clinical. "Subcutaneous layer first to reduce tension, then surface sutures for cosmetic purposes. The forehead is tricky—lots of movement, thin skin, high visibility. We want minimal scarring."

I'm lying on an examination table. The room smells like antiseptic and money. Everything is chrome and white and aggressively sterile.

Dr. Morrison's hands move with practiced efficiency. He's maybe fifty, greying at the temples, the kind of fit that suggests he actually follows his own medical advice. Probably runs marathons. Probably has a wife who makes green smoothies and kids who play lacrosse.

"You might feel some pulling," he says.

I feel it. The skin on my forehead being drawn together, millimeter by millimeter, like he's zipping up a jacket that doesn't want to close.

"How many stitches?" I hear myself ask.

"Seven subcutaneous. Probably twelve on the surface." He ties another knot. "Could have been worse. The cut is clean. No debris. You're lucky you fell on marble and not pavement."

Lucky. Lucky Marianna. That's me. Falling on expensive marble instead of cheap concrete.

"The surface sutures will dissolve on their own in about ten days," Dr. Morrison continues. "The ones underneath will take longer—four to six weeks. You'll have some scarring, but minimal. I'm using 6-0 nylon on the surface—very fine. Should heal nicely."

I nod. Which pulls at the stitches. Which makes me immediately regret nodding.

"Try to stay still," he says gently.

Right. Still. Tug.

"How much will it be? Total?" I blurt out.

"Please." My voice cracks. "I need to know. I need to know how much I owe him."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"The consultation, anesthesia, suturing, and follow-up appointment will come to about eighteen hundred," he says carefully. "But as I understand it, you're not being billed. This is being handled directly through—"

"Eighteen hundred dollars."

The number sits in my stomach like a stone.

I don't have eighteen hundred dollars. I don't have a hundred dollars. I have fourteen dollars and a credit card that's maxed out and a student loan payment due in six days that I don't know how I'm going to make.

And now I owe Duane Richter eighteen hundred dollars.

On top of living in his apartment rent-free for almost two weeks.

On top of the clothes he's let me wear.

On top of the food I've eaten from his refrigerator.

On top of the cracked iPhone he gave me.

On top of whatever goodwill I burned through when I lied to Dr. Lindholm.

The math is happening in my head. Automatic. Compulsive. The same way I count stop signs when I'm anxious or calculate tips down to the penny or track every dollar that leaves my account like I'm auditing my own poverty.

Rent value of his guest room: approximately $2,000/month in Miami. I've been there 13 days. That's $866.67.

Add the stitches: $1,800.

Add the cracked iPhone (used, but still probably $300 retail).

Add food (I've eaten maybe $100 worth of groceries?).

Add clothes (the hoodie alone was $340, I saw the tag).

Add the airport pickup (Uber would have been $60).

Total debt to Duane Richter: $3,466.67.

Three thousand, four hundred and sixty-six dollars and sixty-seven cents.

That's two months of rent in Brooklyn. That's my entire savings account times three. That's more money than I've ever had in my life at one time.

And I can't pay it back.

Not now. Not soon. Not for months, maybe years, depending on how many more disasters I accumulate between now and financial solvency.

"All done," Dr. Morrison says.

I blink. When did I close my eyes?

He's holding up a mirror. "Want to see?"

He holds the mirror at an angle.

There's a line of neat black stitches running from my hairline toward my eyebrow—twelve of them, just like he said, each one a tiny X marking the spot where I fucked up.

"It'll fade," Dr. Morrison says, misreading my expression. "Most people are surprised by how well facial wounds heal. You're young. Good skin. Give it six months and you'll barely notice it."

"Thank you," I manage. "For... this."

"You're welcome." He's already moving away, disposing of gloves, making notes on a tablet. "Keep it clean and dry for the first 48 hours. No strenuous exercise—"

"—and if you notice any signs of infection, call immediately. Redness, swelling, discharge, fever. Any of those are red flags."

"Got it."

"Oh, and Marianna?" He looks up from the tablet. His expression has shifted to something gentler. More human. "Mr. Richter was very worried about you. I'll send you home with some painkillers," Dr. Morrison continues. "Over-the-counter strength. Take them with food. And try to rest."

Duane is in the waiting room.

Not sitting. Standing. He stops when he sees me. His eyes go immediately to my forehead.

"It's fine," I say before he can ask. "Seven internal, twelve external. I'm Frankenstein now. Very on-brand."

He doesn't smile. Doesn't react at all, really. Just nods once and turns toward the exit.

We walk to the car in silence.

The drive back is worse than the drive there.

Just us. And the slowly darkening Miami skyline. And the debt calculation running on loop in my head.

$3,466.67.

I press my forehead against the window. The glass is cool. Soothing. The stitches pull slightly with the movement but I don't care.

"Stop doing that," Duane says.

"Doing what?"

"Whatever you're doing."

The accuracy of this statement is so brutal it takes my breath away.

"I'm fine," I lie.

"Marianna—"

"I'm fine."

We don't speak again until we're back in the building. In the elevator. In the hallway. Standing in front of his apartment door while he keys in the code.

The door opens.

We step inside.

The marble floors are clean now. Someone cleaned up my blood while we were at the hospital. Like it never happened. Like I never fell.

"I'm sorry," I say.

The words come out automatic. Reflexive. The same way you say "bless you" when someone sneezes or "thank you" when someone holds a door.

Duane stops. Turns. Looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"For what?"

"I..." My voice cracks. Shit. Not again. I'm not crying again. I've cried more in the past 48 hours than I have in the past year and I'm done, I'm so fucking done with being the girl who cries—

But the tears come anyway.

"I couldn't say it," I choke out. "When Dr. Lindholm asked me what happened. I couldn't—I tried to tell her, I wanted to tell her, but my mouth wouldn't work and I just—" The words are tumbling out now, tripping over each other, broken and desperate. "I said nothing happened. I protected him. And you—you confronted him. You probably assaulted him. And I made you look—I made it seem like you were overreacting and I'm so sorry. I don't know if there will be legal trouble. I don't know if I fucked things up for you. I don't know why I can't just—"

I'm sobbing now. Full, ugly, body-shaking sobs that make the stitches in my forehead pull and my chest hurt and my breath come in these horrible gasping hitches.

I can't look at him. Can't see his face. Can't handle whatever expression he's wearing—disappointment or disgust or that cold neutrality that's somehow worse than anger.

And then his arms are around me.

Not tentative. Not careful. Just... around me. Solid and warm and steady, pulling me against his chest like I'm something worth holding instead of something to be tolerated.

"It's okay," he says.

His voice is so gentle it destroys me.