Saved by Brother's Best Friend (Marianna and Duane) novel Chapter 7

Marianna

I wake up to the sound of my own destruction.

Well. Technically, I wake up to the sound of a phone ringing—the cracked iPhone Duane left me, buzzing against the nightstand like an angry insect. But same difference, really.

The screen shows a New York number. Eastside Physical Therapy. My employer.

I already know what this call is going to be. I answer anyway.

"Hi, Marianna? This is Brenda Kowalczyk from Human Resources."

Brenda Kowalczyk. The woman who smells like Bath & Body Works vanilla and has never made eye contact with another human being in her entire life. The woman whose sole purpose seems to be delivering bad news in a tone that suggests she's reading from a script written by someone who's never experienced a human emotion. I still don't know how to pronounce her last name. Five months of employment and I've been strategically mumbling the second half every time.

"Hi, Brenda."

"I'm calling to inform you that your employment with Eastside Physical Therapy has been terminated, effective immediately."

There it is.

"As per your employee handbook," Brenda continues, her voice as flat as day-old soda, "failure to report to work without prior notification constitutes job abandonment. This is a serious violation of—"

"I know." I cut her off. "I understand."

"Your final paycheck will be mailed to your address on file. Please return your access badge and any company property at your earliest convenience. Do you have any questions?"

Do I have questions?

Yeah, Brenda. I have questions. Like: how did my life become such a spectacular dumpster fire in less than forty-eight hours? Like: what kind of karmic debt am I paying off from a past life? Like: is there a support group for people who keep accidentally destroying everything they touch?

"No," I say instead. "No questions."

"Great. Best of luck in your future endeavors."

She hangs up before I can respond. Which is probably for the best, because the only response I had was a string of profanity that would've gotten me blacklisted from the entire New York physical therapy community.

I let the phone drop onto the bed. Stare at the ceiling—grey, obviously, because Duane Richter has never met a color he didn't find personally offensive.

Terminated. Effective immediately.

Five months of 6 AM commutes on the L train. Five months of caring about Mrs. Patterson's knee replacement and Mr. Goldman's rotator cuff and all the other bodies I was learning to fix. Five months of being the newest, youngest, most expendable member of a team that never really wanted me there in the first place.

Gone. Just like that.

And the thing is—the really pathetic thing is—I can't even be mad at them. Because they're right. I did abandon my patients. Did disappear without a word, without a text, without even a half-assed email saying "sorry, personal emergency, be back soon." I just... left. Got on a plane and flew to Miami like my problems wouldn't follow me here.

My phone buzzes again. Email this time.

Subject: Termination of Employment - Marianna Reyes

And Jill—Jill would Venmo me $500 without even asking what it's for. That's exactly why I can't ask. She works at a nonprofit making $42,000 a year in New York City, which means she's barely surviving herself. I refuse to be another weight dragging her down.

So. Options: none. Resources: none. Safety net: nonexistent.

I could go back to New York. That's the logical thing to do—crawl back to the apartment, face Josh's empty drawers and the couch I'll never be able to sit on again, find a new job, move on like a functional adult.

But every time I think about it, I hear his voice. You're a wooden board, Mari. A freak. What kind of girl doesn't like sex?

The worst part isn't that he said it. The worst part is that he's not the first.

There was Tyler sophomore year, who told his friends I was "broken" after I couldn't relax enough to let him past second base. There was Daniel, who accused me of being secretly gay because "no straight girl is this frigid." There was Marcus, sweet Marcus, who tried so hard to be patient until one night he snapped and asked if I'd been assaulted or something, because "normal women don't just... freeze up like that."

I haven't been assaulted. I'm not gay. I'm not broken—at least, I don't think I am. I just... can't. Can't turn off my brain. Can't stop feeling like my body is a house I'm renting, not owning. Can't figure out why everyone else seems to have the instruction manual and I'm just standing there, staring at the parts, pretending I know what I'm doing.

Four boyfriends. Four identical endings.

I don't want to go back to New York and be that girl again. The broken one. The freak. The one whispered about at parties—oh yeah, she's hot, but trust me, not worth the effort.

Not yet. Not while Josh's words are still echoing in my skull like a song I can't stop humming.

I need to stay in Miami long enough to prove I'm not the broken girl everyone thinks I am. But I also need to get the hell out of Duane Richter’s impossibly grey, dangerously intoxicating apartment as soon as humanly possible, before I do something disastrous. Before I let myself look at him too long and forget all my rules. I need money. I need a lifeline.

I need a new plan.