Saved by Brother's Best Friend (Marianna and Duane) novel Chapter 20

Marianna.

The Publix on Brickell smells like air conditioning and existential dread, but tonight—tonight it smells like victory.

Okay, that's dramatic. It smells like floor cleaner and the faint desperation of a thousand office workers buying pre-made sushi at 7 PM. But to me, right now, standing in the frozen foods aisle with a basket that isn't empty for once?

Victory.

I got the job.

I got the fucking job.

Tomorrow. I start tomorrow.

Fifty-four thousand dollars a year. That's $4,500 a month before taxes. That's rent and student loans and food that isn't off-brand peanut butter. That's a life. An actual, functioning, adult human life that doesn't involve hiding behind kitchen islands or crying into borrowed pillows.

I'm so happy I could scream.

Instead, I'm standing in front of the frozen pizza section, having what can only be described as a religious experience.

Because here's the thing: I don't have to buy the $4.99 Totino's Party Pizza. I don't have to count the pennies in my bank account and calculate whether I can afford the extra $2 for DiGiorno. I can just... buy what I want. Like a person. Like a normal, employed, salary-having person who doesn't subsist on shame and carbohydrates.

I reach for the Amy's Organic Margherita. $8.99. Practically luxury.

My hand hovers there for a moment, trembling slightly, like I'm about to commit a crime.

You deserve this, I tell myself. You just got a job that pays more than you've ever made in your life. You can afford the fancy pizza.

I put it in my basket.

Then I add a bottle of wine—the $12 one, not the $6 one that tastes like regret and battery acid. A bag of those pretentious organic chips that Jill always buys. A container of hummus that costs more than my hourly wage at Eastside used to be.

I'm shopping like someone who has a future.

It feels... strange. Good-strange, but strange nonetheless. Like wearing shoes that actually fit after years of cramming my feet into sizes too small.

The checkout line is short—just me and a man in a suit buying exactly one banana and a Red Bull, which feels like a cry for help—and I pay with my credit card without flinching. The balance will be manageable now. Everything will be manageable now.

I walk back to Duane's building with my grocery bags swinging, the Miami evening warm and humid against my skin, and I feel something I haven't felt in... god, weeks? Months?

Hope.

Disgusting. Pathetic. Probably going to bite me in the ass.

But hope nonetheless.

The apartment is empty when I get back.

I know this immediately—can feel the absence of him in the air, the way the space relaxes when he's not in it. No presence lurking in dark corners. No threat of running into six feet of emotional unavailability in the kitchen.

Just me. Alone. With my fancy pizza and my $12 wine and the knowledge that I'm getting the fuck out of here.

I've already done the math. My first paycheck will hit in two weeks—Kinetic does bi-weekly pay, direct deposit, like a real adult company. With $4,500 gross, I'll probably take home around $3,400 after taxes. Enough for first month's rent on a modest apartment, plus security deposit if I find somewhere reasonable. Enough to not be here anymore.

Enough to never see Duane Richter's stupid, perfect, emotionally constipated face ever again.

Well. Almost never.

The thought niggles at the back of my brain as I preheat the oven. Kinetic works with F1 teams. With his team. There's a non-zero chance that—

No. Stop it.

Miami is a big city. Kinetic is a big facility. The odds of me, entry-level nobody, being anywhere near the star driver of Veloce Racing are basically zero. They'll have me doing intake paperwork and sanitizing equipment and all the other grunt work that new hires get stuck with. I'll be invisible. A cog in the machine. Exactly what I want to be.

I pour myself a generous glass of wine. Raise it to the empty apartment.

"To never seeing you again," I say out loud, to no one. "Except I definitely will, because you live here, but after that—never. Gone. Deleted from my life like a bad Tinder match."

The wine is actually good. Fruity and slightly dry, with notes of "I spent more than six dollars on this" and "my life might not be a complete disaster after all."

I eat my fancy pizza standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through my phone, reading the employment contract Dr. Lindholm emailed over. Standard stuff—confidentiality agreements, non-compete clauses, a section about professional conduct with high-profile clients that makes me snort.

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