Todos los capítulos de Saved by Brother's Best Friend: Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

MariannaTime is doing that thing again.Where it stops being a linear concept and becomes more like... Jell-O. Wobbly. Uncertain. You poke it and your finger goes through and you're not sure if you've been standing here for three seconds or three hours.It's 1 PM. I know this because I check my phone. The cracked screen shows 1:00 PM in sad digital numbers.Then I check again and it's 2:50 PM.I don't remember the hour and fifty minutes in between. They're just... gone. Dissolved into that Jell-O void where time goes to die.I'm in Recovery Suite 2. There's a client on the table—someone from the Dolphins, I think, linebacker, knee issue—and my hands are doing their job. Pressing into the IT band, releasing tension, following the protocol I learned in school and have executed approximately nine hundred times.The puppet-version of Marianna is very good at her job."—feeling okay?"I blink. The linebacker is looking at me over his shoulder. Concerned. Which is wrong. I'm supposed to be

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 aggressiv

Marianna.I close my eyes.The stitches throb. My head aches. My chest is full of things I can't name and don't want to examine.Duane's breathing is steady beside me. In. Out.I try to match it. Breathe when he breathes. Slow my heart rate down from hummingbird to something more human.It doesn't work.My brain won't shut off. It's doing that thing where it replays the same moment over and over, examining it from every angle .Was that real desire?It's like being colorblind your whole life and then someone shows you red for the first time, except you can't trust that it's actually red.Duane shifts beside me. His hand—the one that squeezed mine and let go—is resting on the floor now, close enough that I could reach out and touch it if I wanted to.My hands fist in the sheets instead.The expensive sheets that I'm bleeding on.God, I'm tired. Tired of the constant mental accounting. Tired of second-guessing every emotion.Just exist for a few hours without turning yourself into a bal

Marianna."We need to talk, Marianna."Marco holds the serious face for exactly four seconds. Then his mouth twitches. Then the corner lifts. Then—"About how you are going to pay me back for this insanely expensive souvenir I lugged across the Atlantic."He is grinning. Full dimples. The same grin he used at age twelve when he convinced me our goldfish had run away from home.It was a joke. "We need to talk" was a joke.I am going to murder my brother."Your face," Marco wheezes, doubling over. "Oh my God, Mari, your face—you looked like I was about to read you your Miranda rights—""I hate you," I say, but the relief flooding through me is so intense I feel dizzy. Or maybe that is the stitches. Or the malnutrition. Or the general condition of being Marianna Reyes. "I genuinely, profoundly hate you.""You love me. I am your favorite sibling.""You are my only sibling. That's not a compliment."Duane has not moved. He's still standing at the mouth of the hallway, freshly showered, dam

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,