Page 118 of The Beautiful Collision
Just… nothing.
Because the thing is, I already have everything. I have a job I love at Metropolitan Children’s Hospital in Philly, where my supervisor actually praised my empathy last week instead of calling it a weakness. I have Sophie working three floors down in the ER, our lunch breaks spent gossiping about the residents.
I have Mike assembling furniture badly in my living room, and Rook sending inappropriate memes to our group chat, and this whole ridiculous, perfect chosen family who looked at my messiest, most unfiltered self and decided I was worth keeping.
I have parents who fly in once a month, not mine but Maine’s, who love me and hug me like I’m their daughter and text me every day. Susan Hamilton sends me recipes I’ll never make, and Richard asks my opinion about Chloe’s treatment plan like I’m the expert I worked so hard to become.
And I have him.
Maine.
Not just the performer, not the player, although those parts are fun. But also the sweetest guy in the entire universe, wholeaves me coffee in the mornings and stays awake during my trashy reality shows and looks at me like he can’t believe I’m real.
Sophie’s eyes catch mine, understanding flickering across her face. She knows what that envelope was. She also knows I don’t need to talk about it. That’s growth, baby. And, when I nod at her, she picks it up and tosses it in the recycle bin without even a word.
The refrigerator—our first joint purchase that wasn’t beer—is already covered in the detritus of our new life. Maine’s rookie schedule with Philadelphia takes up half the door, but we don’t need Mike’s schedule, because of course the universe decided to keep them together.
Their bromance transcended college hockey and went pro.
But it also means we had built-in friends in a new city. It means Sophie and I could navigate our new jobs knowing we had each other. It means home followed us here, although Sophie flies out every other weekend to go see her sick mother and her sister.
Next to the schedules is a photo that makes my throat tight every time I look at it. Chloe at her last appointment, from a few weeks ago, cheeks pink with actual health instead of fever, grinning as she holds up a sign that saysONE MONTH!
The experimental treatment isn’t a cure—we all know that—but it’s working.
It’sfuckingworking.
And, better than that, the trust fund Maine set up with his signing bonus means she’ll never have to worry about treatment costs again. His parents cried when he told them. Hell, I cried when he told them. He just sat there with this quiet smile, like he’d finally set down a weight he’d been carrying his whole life.
Whatever happens, Chloe is covered.
“Hey,” Maine says, climbing up beside me on the stepladder, which creaks ominously under our combined weight.
“This thing has a weight limit,” I point out. “And I’m not sure your team will be thrilled if you break your leg falling off a ladder…”
“Eh, we’ll risk it.” His thumb swipes across my cheek, and comes away white with paint. “You’ve got a little…”
“Interior decorating is messy work.”
“Everything you do is messy work.” But he says it with such fondness that it sounds like a declaration of love.
Which, knowing Maine, it probably is. He’s gotten better at saying the actual words, but occasionally his “I love you” sounds like “you’ve got paint on your face” or “your parents called and I told them you were dead.”
(He didn’tactuallytell them I was dead, but he did tell them I was doing allsortsof drugs)
“You good?” he asks, and I know he saw me tell Sophie to throw away the letter.
Nothing gets past him anymore, not when it comes to me. He’s mapped every tell, every defense mechanism, every way I try to hide. And every time I try to swish away from him or deflect, he just holds my gaze and holds me in his arms. It should be terrifying. Instead, it’s the safest I’ve ever felt.
“More than good.”
He kisses me, and it tastes like tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that. Like Sunday morning coffee and Thursday night takeout and all the ordinary, extraordinary moments that make a life. Like falling asleep on his lap after a long shift. Like inside jokes and shared groceries and the quiet revolution of choosing each other every single day.
“Gross,” Mike calls out. “Get a room.”
“We have a whole apartment,” Maine points out.
“That I’m currently assembling furniture in,” Mike rolls his eyes.
