49

Marianna.

"You told me you two are 'taking a break,' which is what you say every three months before getting back together like nothing happened." Marco is oblivious to my respiratory distress. "What is this—the fourth cycle? Fifth? You guys have more seasons than Grey's Anatomy."

Duane's expression is completely neutral.

"We're not getting back together," he says.

"That's what you said last time. And the time before that. And the time before—"

"Marco."

"I'm just saying. You two have a pattern." Marco takes a sip of his whiskey. "She shows up, you cave, things are good for a month, then she does something unhinged, you break up, rinse and repeat. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion—"

"Unfortunate metaphor," Duane says.

"—except the car keeps driving back to the crash site. Voluntarily."

I'm staring at my wine glass with the intensity of someone trying to develop telekinesis. If I look at Duane right now, my face will betray me. It will betray every single thing I'm feeling, which is a complicated cocktail of jealousy and relief and the very specific pain of hearing about the woman your... whatever Duane is to me... keeps going back to.

"Alina and I are done," Duane says. Final. Like he's closing a door.

"Heard that before," Marco sing-songs.

"This time is different."

"Also heard that before."

"Marco."

"Fine, fine." Marco holds up his hands in surrender. "New topic. Mari—" He pivots toward me with the terrifying precision of a heat-seeking missile. "Let's talk about your love life."

No. Absolutely not.

"Let's not."

"Come on. You've been in Miami for—what, two weeks? Three? Tell me you've at least been swiping. Meeting people. Getting out there."

"I've been a little busy, Marco. With the new job. And the not having money. And the—" I gesture at my forehead. "—general face trauma."

"Excuses." He waves a hand dismissively. "You know what your problem is?"

"Please don't tell me."

"Your taste in men is atrocious."

I take another large sip of wine. Beside me, I can feel Duane go very, very still.

"Josh was a disaster," Marco continues, ticking off on his fingers. "Before Josh was that guy—what was his name? Daniel? The one who wore fedoras?"

"He wore one fedora. One time."

"Once is enough. Fedoras are a referendum on character." Marco shakes his head. "And before Daniel was Tyler, who I'm pretty sure had the IQ of a kitchen sponge. And before Tyler was—who was the first one?"

"Can we please—"

"Marcus! That's right. Marcus. The 'nice guy.'" Marco uses air quotes that are aggressive enough to qualify as a weapon. "He lasted what, two months? Three? Before he turned out to be another disappointment?"

I'm dying. I'm actually dying. This is how I die—not from the stitches or the insomnia or the trauma, but from my brother cataloging my sexual failures over a $200 dinner while the man I kissed yesterday sits three feet away.

"My point," Marco says, leaning forward, "is that you keep picking these... these..." He searches for the word. "These soft guys. These gentle, feelings-having, wants-to-talk-about-everything guys. And they keep—"

"Disappointing her?" Duane supplies. His voice is perfectly even. But there's something underneath it. Something sharp and dark that I probably wouldn't notice if I hadn't spent two weeks learning the frequency of his silences.

"Exactly!" Marco points at Duane like he's just solved a complex equation. "They keep disappointing her. Because she doesn't need gentle. She needs someone who's going to—I don't know—challenge her. Push back. Someone with actual presence."

I am going to crawl under this table and never emerge.

"Someone like who?" I hear myself ask, because apparently my mouth has a death wish.

"I don't know." Marco shrugs. "Like—someone with an actual spine. Someone driven. Competitive. Maybe a little intense."

He's describing Duane. He's literally describing Duane and he doesn't even realize it. He's sitting here, between me and his best friend, casually sketching the outline of the exact man I've been falling for, and he has absolutely no idea.

I glance at Duane. He's looking at his water glass like it contains the secrets of the universe.

"You know what?" Marco says suddenly. "What about Oliver?"

The water glass stops moving.

"Who?" I manage.

"Oliver Hale. The Alpine driver. I saw those photos from Monaco—the internet thinks you two are dating." Marco grins. "He's not bad-looking. Seems friendly. Has a career. Doesn't wear fedoras."

"We're not dating."

"But you could be. He kissed you."

"On the forehead, Marco. It was a forehead kiss."

"That's how it starts. First it's the forehead. Then the cheek. Then the mouth. Then—"

"Please stop narrating a theoretical escalation of physical intimacy between me and my client."

"I'm just saying." Marco takes another sip of whiskey. "He seems like a nice guy. Might be good for you."

The word nice hangs in the air like a grenade with a pulled pin.

I can feel Duane's presence beside me—his arm on the back of the booth, not touching me but close enough that I can sense the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that if I shifted half an inch to the right, my shoulder would press against his ribs.

I don't shift.

"Oliver is a client," I say firmly. "Nothing more."

"That's exactly what Duane said about Alina the first time they—"

"Completely different situation," Duane says. His voice is clipped. Short.

"Is it though?" Marco is enjoying himself way too much. The whiskey has loosened him up, turned him from protective-brother mode into chaos-agent mode. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks exactly the same. Professional relationship. Close proximity. Late nights in the same city. One of them is clearly more invested than the other—"

"Which one," Duane says flatly, "is clearly more invested."

Marco laughs. "Ollie, obviously. Did you see those photos? The kid looks at Mari like she hung the moon. Classic puppy love."

I want to evaporate. Just become mist. Drift out over the ocean and join the water cycle. Become rain. Fall on a different continent. Nourish a tree. Be useful for once.

"He does not look at me like that."

"He absolutely does. Duane, tell her."

Duane takes a very deliberate sip of water. "I'm not getting involved in this."

"You're already involved. You're hosting her. You're basically her landlord. You have opinions."

"I don't have opinions about Oliver Hale."

The lie is so smooth, so perfectly delivered, that if I didn't know better—if I hadn't felt his hands on my face twelve hours ago, if I hadn't heard collecting drivers—I'd believe him completely.

But I do know better. And the lie sits between us like a third person at the table.