69

Marianna.

"I miss you," I say.

It comes out before I decide to say it. Just—exists suddenly in the air between Miami and London, two words that feel too small for what they're carrying and also exactly the right size.

Silence.

Not the good kind. Not the bad kind. A different kind—the kind that happens when someone is deciding whether to let something be real.

"I know," he says finally.

Which is not I miss you too.

But from Duane—from a man who communicates in paper airplanes and borrowed cars and vanilla candles and rooms upgraded without announcement—I know is not deflection. I know means I feel it too and I'm acknowledging it without performing it.

I've learned his grammar.

"Okay," I say softly.

"Okay," he agrees.

The call ends at midnight.

I lie in Marco's guest bed—my guest bed now, I've stopped thinking of it as borrowed—and look at the paper airplane on the windowsill. The Montreal one, unfolded now, welcome back visible in the ambient streetlight.

Next to it: the bad one. My airplane. The asymmetric one that would not achieve meaningful lift.

I put them side by side last week without thinking about it. Only noticed afterward. Only noticed that I'd unconsciously created a little collection, two pieces of folded paper on a windowsill, like I was building something without having planned to.

My phone buzzes.

Jill: still awake?

Me: Yes.

Jill: How's the long distance thing going?

Me: It's not long distance. We're not—we haven't defined—

Jill: You talk every night and you have his paper airplane on your windowsill.

Me: That's not a definition.

Jill: That's EXTREMELY a definition

Me: Jill.

Jill: Okay, okay. How's the not-defined thing going?

I think about it.

Me: It's like. You know when you're really hungry and you finally eat something good and your body is satisfied but there's this specific awareness of the hunger that existed before? Like you can feel the shape of what was missing?

A pause.

Jill: That's the most Marianna way to describe feelings I've ever heard.

Jill: Are you saying you miss him?

Me: I'm saying I'm aware of the shape of his absence.

Jill: THAT'S THE SAME THING.

Me: It's more precise.

Jill: I love you so much, you absolute disaster.

Me: Thank you.

Jill: Get some sleep. You have a 7am.

Me: Oliver.

Jill: Give my regards to the forehead-kisser:)

Me: He's my CLIENT, Jill—

Jill: Goodnight, Marianna.

Me: Goodnight.

Oliver arrives at 7:03 with two coffees and the energy of a golden retriever who's discovered the concept of Silverstone.

"Three weeks," he says, dropping onto Table 1 with the specific vibration of someone who cannot contain their enthusiasm. "Three weeks until home race. I grew up forty minutes from the circuit. My mum is already planning a viewing party. She's made a banner."

"A banner," I repeat.

"With my face on it. Life-sized." He grimaces with affection. "It's a lot of face."

I take the coffee—he always brings me one, has since the second session, without asking what I want, somehow always getting it right, oat milk flat white, which I mentioned once in passing and he apparently committed to memory—and start setting up.

"How's the back?" I ask.

"Good. Really good, actually. I've been doing the exercises." He sounds proud of this. Like a student who actually did the homework. "The hip flexor ones especially. I set a phone reminder."

"You set a phone reminder for your hip flexor exercises."

"Twice daily. With a little stretching emoji." He grins. "Don't judge me. It works."

"I'm not judging you. I'm writing 'patient compliance: excellent' in your notes."

"Put 'exemplary.' Put 'a model patient and a joy to treat.'"

"I'll put 'uses emoji effectively.'"

He laughs. Settles onto the table face-down while I start the assessment, my hands finding the familiar landscape of his thoracolumbar fascia, the muscle memory of three weeks of sessions making this comfortable and known.

"Marianna," he says, into the table.

"Mm."

"Can I ask you something personal?"

My hands continue their rhythm. Press, release, glide. "Depends on the personal."

"It's not weird. It's just—" He pauses. "You seem different lately. Since Montreal. Like something shifted."

I say nothing.

"Good different," he adds quickly. "Like— lighter. Like you put something down that you'd been carrying."

My hands slow slightly. I make them continue.

"I'm just settling in," I say. "New job. New city. It takes time to—"

"Marianna."

"Oliver—"

"I'm not asking you to tell me anything," he says. His voice is gentle. The sunshine quality of him, turned down to something quieter and more genuine. "I'm just saying I noticed. And it looks good on you. Whatever it is."

I press into his QL. He makes the sound he always makes—half pain, half relief.

"Thank you," I say, after a moment.

"Also," he says, back to his normal register, "my social media manager wants to know if Kinetic would be interested in a content partnership. Recovery content. Very tasteful. You'd just have to be in the background looking competent."

"I always look competent."

"You look extremely competent. It's your whole thing." He pauses. "Will you think about it?"

"I'll think about it."

"Brilliant." He relaxes into the table. "Oh—and Silverstone. Are you coming?"

My hands pause. Just for a second.

"It's not in my schedule," I say.

"I know. I'm asking if you want to come. Alpine has a hospitality slot." He says it casually. Too casually. The kind of casual that has been considered. "You were brilliant in Monaco. The team liked you. And your—" He stops.

"My what?"

"Nothing. Just—I think you'd enjoy it."

I resume the session. My hands work. My brain does what it always does, which is notice things.

Oliver knows. Not everything. But something. The way he stopped mid-sentence. The way your— was about to become a word he'd decided not to say.

He's perceptive, Oliver Hale. Underneath the golden retriever energy and the emoji phone reminders and the life-sized face banners, he sees things.

"I'll think about Silverstone too," I say.

"No pressure," he says immediately.

"I know."

"Just—" He pauses. "It's good racing. And you deserve good things, Marianna."

The words land quietly. Genuinely. With no agenda underneath them.

You deserve good things.

I think about the vanilla candle. The heartbeat under my palm. The breath against my ear saying sleep in a voice that belonged only to the dark.

"Yeah," I say softly. "I'm starting to think so too."

The call that night comes at 10:47 PM.

Not from Duane.

From a number I don't recognize. London area code.

I almost don't answer.

"Ms. Reyes." A woman's voice. Smooth. Accented—Swedish, I place it immediately, with the specific chill of recognition. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Everything in me goes very still.

"Alina," I say.