Page 18 of The Beautiful Collision
We’ll figure it out.
Four words that probably explain everything from the apartment’s décor to several of Maine’s life choices, but I don’t get the chance to consider it further because Sophie is already struggling through the door with my first box—KITCHEN: FRAGILE GLASSWARE, written in my precise handwriting.
“Kitchen,” I say, desperate to establish some kind of beachhead in this wasteland of bro.
I head for the kitchen as Maine lurks and the other guys go down for more boxes. The fluorescent bulb above flickers like it’s transmitting an SOS, casting everything in harsh morgue light that highlights every fossilized spill and mystery stain. I yank open the first cabinet and actually stagger backward.
It’s dishware hell. Promotional plastic cups jostle with stolen pint glasses in a precarious tower that defies many laws of physics. There are at least six different hockey team logos visible, plus a mug shaped like breasts that says DRINK IF YOU’RE HORNY.
My wine glasses—delicate, matching, designer—would survive five seconds.
“Problem?” Maine materializes at my shoulder, clearly feeling none of my doubt or doing a much better job of hiding it.
“Your cabinets are…” I search for diplomacy while my brain screams profanities. “Occupied.”
“Oh, we can totally make room.” He reaches past me, his arm grazing mine with the casual disregard for personal space that must be hardwired into athletes, and starts shoving mugs around like he’s playing dishware Tetris. After ceramic shrieks against ceramic, he grins. “Tons of space now.”
A mug teeters on the precipice. I watch its death wobble in slow motion, my entire future flashing before my eyes—a future of serving Pinot Noir in vessels that say BEER PONG CHAMPION 2024—before it, mercifully, falls and shatters on the floor.
“Heads up, princess!” Rook’s voice booms across the apartment, handling my belongings with the delicacy of a caffeinated rhino. He’s shaking a box labeled KITCHEN: FRAGILE CERAMIC DECOR like he’s trying to guess what’s inside. “This one’s heavy as fuck!”
“Please don’t—“ I start, but he’s already dropped it with a thud that definitely just murdered something irreplaceable.
“Smells like a fucking garden center exploded in here,” he announces, nostrils flaring dramatically.
Mike follows Rook in as he lifts a box with surprising care. “Christ, how much shit do you own?”
“A normal amount,” I snap defensively.
“This one says BATHROOM: LUXURIES,” Mike reads, holding it like it might be contagious. “What the fuck is a bathroom luxury?”
“Skincare products,” I explain, heat crawling up my neck. “Face masks, bath salts, essential oils?—“
“Essential for what?” Rook interrupts, looking genuinely mystified as he’s halfway out the door to go get the next box.
“For not looking like you wash your face with bar soap and prayer,” I shoot back.
Maine’s laugh detonates—that seismic sound that probably registers on geological surveys—and suddenly I’m hyperaware that I’m surrounded by three hockey players and defending my ten-step skincare routine. This is how dignity dies: not with a bang, but surrounded by men who think SPF is a conspiracy.
“Alright, alright, children,” Maine says, still grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Less investigating her shit, more moving it. Mike, you’re on lamp duty. Rook, grab the books and try not to use them as weights.”
They disperse with surprising efficiency. Mike handles my standing lamp with the careful reverence of someone who’s been Sophie-trained not to break things, while Rook juggles my nursing textbooks, whistling appreciatively at their heft. Sophie shoots me a look that screamsI’m turning this into a TikTok series.
I retreat to the refrigerator, praying for one small territory in this domestic battlefield. But it’s not to be, because there’s a pizza box hogging the top shelf, a door that’s a monument tohot sauce—at least fifteen bottles creating a rainbow of future regrets—and an entire drawer that’s just beer.
My almond milk. My farmers market vegetables. They’re all going to die here.
I turn to Maine. “The fridge is filthy.”
“But it’s cold. Doesn’t cold kill germs?”
I stare at him, desperately scanning for any hint of sarcasm, but all I get is pride and warmth. His blue eyes are wide with what appears to be genuine scientific interest, a man who has reached legal drinking age believing refrigeration equals sterilization.
“That’s not how microbiology works,” I say slowly. “I’m going to need to clean this out…”
He shrugs and leans against the counter, his frame making the kitchen feel like a dollhouse. “Learn something new every day.”
My eye twitches, but I begin my sanitization mission with the grim determination of someone who is all out of choices, carving out one pristine shelf through sheer force of will and industrial-strength disinfectant. Once I’m done, my food and my almond milk huddle together like disaster survivors.
