70

Marianna.

"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.

A pause. Appreciative, almost. Like she's pleased I recognized her.

"I heard you were in Montreal," she says. "For work."

"Yes."

"And that you've been assigned to the Veloce medical program."

"I can't discuss—"

"I'm not asking you to discuss anything clinical." Her voice is warm. Friendly, even. The kind of friendly that has very sharp edges underneath. "I just wanted to introduce myself properly. We met briefly at Duane's apartment, but I don't think we had a real conversation."

"What do you want, Alina?"

A small laugh. "Directness. I appreciate that." A pause. "I want the same thing you want, I imagine. For Duane to be well. To perform at his best. To be—" Another pause, longer, weighted. "Supported by people who understand what his life actually requires."

"I'm his medical support," I say. "That's all."

"Of course." Warm. Smooth. Sharp. "I just think it's worth being honest with each other. Woman to woman." Her voice shifts slightly—not colder, but more precise. "He has a pattern, Ms. Reyes. With women who enter his professional circle. It's—not intentional, I don't think. But it's consistent."

My hand is tight around the phone.

"I'm not—"

"He'll pull you in," she continues, as if I haven't spoken. "He's very good at that. The quiet attention. The specific ways he makes you feel seen." A beat. "And then the season accelerates and the focus narrows and suddenly you're waiting for calls that come less frequently and the space between you is filled with—" She stops. "I'm not telling you this to be unkind."

"Then why are you telling me?"

Silence. Long enough to be an answer.

"Because I've been where you are," she says finally. "And I wish someone had told me that what feels like the beginning is sometimes—" She pauses. "Just a rest stop."

I don't say anything.

She takes my silence as an invitation to continue.

"Can I be honest with you?" she says. "Really honest. Woman to woman."

"You've been talking for two minutes. I assumed that's what you were doing."

A small laugh. Appreciative. Like she finds my sharpness charming in the way that cats find wounded birds charming. "I saw the photos from Monaco. You and Oliver Hale." Another pause, delicate as a scalpel. "And then I heard you were in Montreal. For Duane."

"For work—"

"Of course." The warmth in her voice is so precisely calibrated it's almost impressive. "You're very good at your job, I'm sure. That's how it starts, usually. With Duane, I mean. He respects competence. He notices it." A pause. "It feels like being chosen, doesn't it? When he turns that attention on you. Like being the only person in a very large room."

My jaw tightens.

"It's not a criticism," she says quickly. "I felt it too. Every woman he's ever—" She stops. Lets that hang. Every woman he's ever. The implication a blade slipped between ribs. "I'm just saying I understand the feeling."

"Is there a point to this call?"

"The point," she says, and now the warmth drops by precisely one degree, "is that I know what you are to him right now. And I think, if you're honest with yourself, you know too."

"And what's that?"

"A distraction," she says. Pleasantly. The way you say what lovely weather or your hair looks nice. "A very convenient one. You're there, you're attentive, you understand his world, you're—" A pause that lasts exactly long enough to be deliberate. "Available."

"He's in London now," she continues. "Then Spa. Then Zandvoort. Then Singapore. Do you know how many cities that is? How many hotel rooms? How many nights where Miami is very far away and you are—" Another pause. "Just a name in his phone."

"Alina—"

"I've been that name," she says. And now, just for a moment, something real moves underneath the polish—something that might be genuine, or might be the performance of genuine, and I can't tell which, which is probably the point. "For two years I was that name. And then I wasn't, and then I was again, and then I wasn't, and—" She stops. Collects herself. The warmth slides back into place like a mask resettled. "The season always wins, Ms. Reyes. It always wins. The cars, the races, the championship. That's what he loves. That's what he'll always choose."

"Like waiting," she says finally. "And what feels like the beginning is sometimes—" She pauses, and her voice does something that might be sad if I believed it was real. "Just a rest stop. A place to pull over before the race continues."

A beat.

"He'll call tonight," she adds. Almost as an afterthought. The knife turned slightly. "He always calls. And it will feel like enough, because he's very good at making it feel like enough." Her voice softens to something almost kind, which is the worst version of her voice. "Until it isn't."

The call ends.

I sit in the dark of Marco's apartment, phone in my hand, the two paper airplanes on the windowsill visible in the streetlight.

My phone buzzes.

Duane: Still awake?

I look at his message for a long moment.

Me: Yes.

Duane: Good. Tell me something.

I close my eyes.

Open them.

Look at the airplanes.

Me: Someone told me today that I deserve good things.

A pause.

Duane: They're right.

Me: Are they?

The longest pause yet. Long enough that I think he might not answer. Long enough that the silence starts to have weight.

Duane: Yes.

Just that. One word.

But from him—from a man who says nothing when nothing is what he means—one word is a whole sentence.

I put my phone down.

Look at the airplanes.

Just a rest stop, Alina said.

I think about the heartbeat under my palm. The breath against my ear. Welcome back on a folded piece of paper.

I think about the way he said I know when I told him I missed him, and how I've learned that I know is his I feel it too.

I think about his father, seven years old, a karting track, a paper airplane, everything flat can be given direction if you fold it right.

I pick up my phone.

Me: Duane.

Duane: Mm.

Me: Tell me something.

Another long pause.

Then:

Duane: I think about Montreal.

Me: What part?

Duane: All of it.

Me: Even my terrible airplane.

Duane: Especially that.

I press my hand over my mouth. Over the smile that's happening whether I sanction it or not.

Me: Goodnight.

Duane: Goodnight, Marianna.

I put the phone on the nightstand. Pull up the covers.

Just a rest stop.

Maybe. Maybe that's all this is. Maybe Alina is right and I'm the latest in a pattern and the season will accelerate and the space will grow and eventually I'll be the one making phone calls to the next girl who enters his professional circle.

Maybe.

But also:

He lit a vanilla candle.

He folded a paper airplane from something his dead father taught him.

I close my eyes.