Page 13 of The Beautiful Collision
She doesn’t bite. Sophie never does. It’s infuriating, really, right up there with her ability to see through my bullshit. But as we walk in silence for half a block, our footsteps creating competing rhythms—her steady Adidas squeak against my increasingly erratic heel-strikes—I’m glad she’s with me.
The neighborhood throbs with alien life—undergrads stumbling home from bars, a food truck hawking something that costs less than my now discontinued morning latte, normal people living normal lives in apartments they can comfortably afford.
“You know,” Sophie starts again, apparently done with the silent treatment, “there are dorms available for grad students. McKinley Hall has singles?—“
The laugh rips out of me, sharp and bitter. “A dorm? What’s next, shower caddies and communal bathrooms?”
The image downloads in high-definition horror: shuffling down a hallway in a knockoff silk robe (because someone would definitely steal the real thing), clutching a plastic caddy while some hungover freshman pukes in the only working sink.
“It’s not that bad,” Sophie insists, but even she sounds like she’s choking on the lie. “Lots of grad students?—“
“Lots of grad students didn’t grow up with mothers who would literally orgasm at the thought of their daughter’s public humiliation.” The crudeness is deliberate, a shock grenade. “She’d issue a press release. ‘Disappointment Continues Inevitable Decline, Family Maintains Appropriate Distance.’”
Sophie’s face does that thing where she’s trying so hard not to react that it becomes its own reaction. “Okay, no dorms. What about… I mean, Mike and I?—“
“Do not finish that sentence if it ends with ‘couch.’”
“It’s a really nice couch?”
This time my laugh is genuine, bubbling up from somewhere deeper than despair. The sheer absurdity—me, the girl who once flew to Milan because Bergdorf’s was out of the shoes she wanted, sleeping on Sophie and Mike’s Ikea furniture.
“Sophie Pearson,” I gasp between giggles that might be hysteria wearing a costume, “are you actually suggesting I third-wheel at Mike’s apartment? Should I invest in noise-canceling headphones now, or will you schedule your intimate moments around my emotional collapse?”
Her face flares red from hairline to chest. “We’re not that loud!”
“Sweetheart, I’ve heard the gossip. The ceiling fan shakes. The plants vibrate. I’m pretty sure your downstairs neighbor knows Mike’s entire routine.” I swipe at tears, careful not tosmudge mascara that’s barely hanging on anyway. “I mean, Mike is great, and I love you, but no.”
The levity evaporates as reality reasserts its chokehold. We stand on the corner of Maple and Third, watching traffic crawl past. A bus rumbles by, a sign on the side of it advertising some gym membership—New Year, New You!—and I wonder if they have a program forNew Year, Different Socioeconomic Status.
But my eyes narrow when Sophie’s quiet for long enough that I know something worse is brewing. “Spit it out,” I say finally.
“There is one more option,” she says. “Mike mentioned that Maine needs a roommate. His place is actually pretty nice, two bedrooms, close to campus?—“
“No.”
The word shoots out like a bullet.
Maine Hamilton.
Every cell in my body recoils as the image crystallizes: six-foot-five of pure, unfiltered hockey bro. The human equivalent of an air horn at a funeral. The guy who tried to teach everyone the “proper” way to shotgun a beer by demonstrating using a La Croix at Sophie’s birthday party.
But underneath the visceral rejection, another image flickers: broad shoulders filling a doorway. The way his t-shirts stretch across his chest like they’re fighting a losing battle. That stupidly bright smile that makes you forgive him for being so fucking loud. The way his eyes crinkle when he?—
No. Absolutely fucking not.
“Sophie, no.” The words come out as flat as roadkill. “I would rather live in my car.”
“You don’t have a car anymore.”
The reminder stings, because the Audi was the first casualty of my new economic reality. “I’ll steal one specifically to live in it.”
“Counterproductive—“
“Do you know what his apartment probably looks like?” I’m spiraling now, painting disaster because if I don’t laugh, I’ll scream. “Hockey gear fermenting in corners like some kind of athletic kombucha. A television permanently set to ESPN. And the fridge is definitely just Gatorade and milk for the protein powder.”
“Maya—“
I start walking again, as if I can outrun the idea. “And the parade of puck bunnies doing the walk of shame every morning?” I scoff. “Good for them, honestly, getting that hockey dick, but I don’t need front-row seats to the Maine Hamilton Fuckboy Experience?—“
