Saved by Brother's Best Friend (Marianna and Duane) novel Chapter 8

Marianna

After downing two bottles of Duane’s ridiculous, glass-bottled sparkling water and pacing back and forth to his marble bathroom three times, my crisis-fatigued brain finally offers up exactly two choices.

Option A: Stay in Miami. Find a job. Figure out how to pay Brooklyn rent remotely.

Option B: Disappear into the ocean and become one with the sea.

Option B is looking increasingly attractive, but I'm told saltwater is bad for your skin, so.

I let out a long, pathetic groan and flop backward onto the center of the massive grey bed. I stare up at the ceiling, trace the shadows cast by the Miami skyline outside, and finally force myself to sit up. I have to roll the waistband of Duane's comically large sweatpants for the fifth time just to keep them from sliding off my hips entirely.

The silence in this apartment is deafening, and I need background noise to drown out the sound of my own spiraling. I grab the cracked iPhone, pull up Spotify, and click on my "Crisis Management" playlist. It’s a completely chaotic mix of early-2000s pop-punk, angry breakup anthems, and dramatic Broadway solos—basically the musical equivalent of my current mental state.

I hit shuffle. The aggressive, thrashing guitar intro of a classic pop-punk breakup anthem blasts through the phone's tiny speakers. Perfect. It matches the pounding headache forming behind my eyes.

I pull my knees to my chest, rest the phone against my thighs, and open Safari. Time to do what every desperate, unemployed millennial does in times of crisis: scroll the job listings.

Indeed. LinkedIn. ZipRecruiter. Glassdoor. The holy quartet of "please God let someone hire me."

Athletic Trainer - Miami Dolphins - 3+ years experience required

Nope.

Physical Therapist - Baptist Health - Must have DPT and Florida license

I have a bachelor's degree and a BOC certification. Close but not close enough.

I swipe left so hard I almost drop the phone off my lap. The lead singer in my ear screams about burning down her ex's house, and honestly? I get it. I really get it.

I scroll past a listing for a Rehabilitation Aide that pays $15 an hour. Fifteen dollars. In Miami. I let out a harsh bark of laughter, tap the screen to skip the punk track, and aggressively toss a decorative grey pillow onto the floor just to feel like I have an impact on my environment.

The next song loads. The upbeat, dramatic, and entirely inappropriate intro of "Where Is My Husband" starts bouncing through the room.

I snort, leaning back against the headboard and kicking my legs out. It’s exactly the kind of unhinged energy I need right now. I start mouthing the words to the song, getting a little too into it as I keep scrolling.

"Where is my husband..." I sing aloud, shaking my head to the beat, letting myself just be a mess for a second. "Where is he, where is he—"

Sports Performance Specialist - Kinetic Performance Institute - Entry-level position available

Wait.

I stop singing mid-lyric. My thumb hovers over the cracked screen. I click on the listing. Read it once. Read it again.

I close the tab.

Open it again.

Close it.

Open it.

This is insane. This is the definition of insane. There are probably dozens of sports rehabilitation centers in Miami. Hundreds, even. I could apply to any of them. I could apply to a hospital, a private clinic, a fucking yoga studio that does sports massage on the side. Literally anywhere that doesn't have a direct partnership with the team of the man I've been pathetically, embarrassingly obsessed with since I was fourteen.

I click "Apply Now."

The submit button hovers under my thumb. Big and blue and irreversible.

Don't do it, my brain says. This is a terrible idea. This is the worst idea you've ever had.

I think about Duane's face in that press photo, slightly out of focus, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Yeah. Me too, buddy.

I press submit.