บททั้งหมดของ Saved by Brother's Best Friend: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Marianna.Duane calls at 11 PM on a Tuesday.I know this because I'm lying on Marco's borrowed bed, having a very productive argument with myself about whether to eat the last banana or save it for breakfast, when my phone lights up with a number I've memorized without meaning to.I stare at it for two full rings.This is a thing that's happening. Duane Richter is calling me. On purpose. Like he said he would. Like a person who makes promises he intends to keep.The third ring starts.I answer."Hi," I say."Hi." His voice sounds different on the phone. Closer somehow, and also farther. Like the distance has stripped away some outer layer and what's left is just the frequency of him, low and rough and immediately doing something to my nervous system that I refuse to diagnose."How's Canada?" I ask."Cold.""It's June.""It's Montreal. June is theoretical here."I pull the covers up. Outside, Wynwood is doing its nighttime thing—music, laughter, the distant sound of someone's car alarm

Marianna.He'd said he'd call after the debrief. Debriefs run long after wins—I know this now, I know so much useless beautiful trivia now—so I told myself not to expect anything before ten. Very mature. Very reasonable.By nine I had showered, changed into the good sleep shirt (the good sleep shirt! for a phone call! he can't even see—okay, it was a video call, he could see, that's exactly why), checked my hair in my phone camera twice, hated it, given up, and rearranged the two paper airplanes on my windowsill so they'd be... I don't know. Visible? In the background? I moved them a quarter inch to the left and then felt so stupid I moved them back.Twenty-three years old. A licensed healthcare provider. Staging paper airplanes for a boy.At 9:14 the screen lit up with his name, and I let it ring twice so I wouldn't seem like I'd been holding the phone.I had been holding the phone."Hi," I said, and it came out breathless, which, great, terrific, off to a strong start."Hi." He was

Marianna.I don't see Duane until 6 PM.I'm crossing the hotel lobby toward the elevator, carrying my assessment notes and the patisserie box I've kept for reasons I'm not examining, when I hear him before I see him.Not his voice. His footsteps.He's coming from the direction of the conference rooms—still in team kit, a Veloce Racing jacket, which means he's gone directly from some post-race debrief to— here. To this lobby.He sees me.I see him.For a moment we just exist in the lobby—marble floors, the low murmur of other guests, the soft hotel lighting—and neither of us speaks.Then he crosses the lobby.Stops in front of me.Close enough that I could reach out and touch him. Far enough that we're just two people having a conversation."How was the assessment?" he asks."Good. Everyone's in reasonable shape." I look up at him. "Luca's hip flexor is tight.""What else did he say?""Asked if you were my client."Something cold moves through his eyes. Brief and focused."What did you

Marianna.Silence. The good kind. The kind that's full instead of empty.Outside, Montreal is doing its nighttime thing—quiet but present, the city's breathing just audible through the window. The candle throws slow shadows on the bathroom wall."Marco's in 308," I say, because apparently I cannot help myself."I'm aware.""He would—" I stop. "If he knew. He would—""I know.""We're going to have to—""I know," Duane says. His thumb traces a small circle on the back of my hand. "Not tonight.""Not tonight," I agree.Another silence."Duane?""Mm.""Why paper airplanes?"A beat. The deciding-whether-to-tell-the-truth beat."My father used to make them," he says. The words come out even. Controlled. But with something underneath—a specific gravity that tells me this is a real answer, not a deflection. "When I was young. Before—" He stops. "He'd fold them from whatever was nearby. Napkins. Receipts. He said the point wasn't the paper. It was the arc. That you could take something flat an

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 ai