Page 82 of The Beautiful Collision
I stare at the text, at this reminder that there’s a world outside this hospital where people care about hockey and practice schedules and normal things. A world where I’m supposed to be the star left-wing, the team comedian, the guy who has his shit together.
I type back a message:
Can’t make practice, family thing.
Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally, Mike’s message appears:
You OK?
Two words that feel like a kindness and a cruelty all at once. Because no, I’m not OK. I’m about as far from OK as it’s possible to be while still technically functioning. But admitting that would break the rules, would make me a burden, and would fundamentally alter who I am in the ecosystem of my family and friends.
So I lie.
All good, see you Thursday.
I lie, because the easy kid always smiles.
Even when he’s drowning.
thirty
MAYA
The shotof tequila burns a familiar path down my throat, a clean, sharp fire that momentarily silences the chaos in my mind. I slam the salt-rimmed glass down on the sticky bar top with a satisfyingcrackthat makes the bartender glance over.
I immediately flag him down for another round, ignoring the slight raise of his eyebrow. He’s seen me here before, knows I can handle my liquor, but tonight there’s something different in his assessment. Maybe it’s the way my hand trembles slightly as I reach for my wallet.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m drinking tequila like the world is ending.
Which, in a way, it is.
“Maya, we have clinicals at seven tomorrow morning,” Sophie says beside me, her voice pitched high with that particular brand of concern she gets when she thinks I’m spiraling. “Dr. Rubinez is doing rounds, and you know how he gets when?—“
I tune her out, the words becoming white noise against the pounding bass that vibrates through the floorboards and up into my chest. Instead, I plaster on my most dazzling smile—the onethat saysI’m having the time of my life and you’re lucky to witness it—and turn my attention two stools down.
The guy sitting there has been watching me since we walked in. He’s wearing a too-tight Henley that shows off gym-sculpted arms and has that particular brand of confidence that comes from having never been turned down. Dark hair, decent jawline, generically handsome…
He’s attractive enough to scratch an itch and forgettable enough to walk away from without looking back. So, decision made, I give him a slow, deliberate smirk, the kind that saysI see you looking and I like what I see. His eyes widen slightly, surprised and thrilled in equal measure.
Perfect.
A convenient, breathing shield against my thoughts.
Because if I let myself think, I’ll have to confront what has happened.
But the shield is full of holes, because my mind isn’t here at the club. It’s back in our apartment, replaying the last week on an endless, torturous loop. The way Maine barely looks at me anymore, his eyes sliding past me like I’m furniture. The careful distance he maintains in our shared spaces.
He saw you,my mind whispers through the crack in the shield, in a voice that sounds like my mother’s.He held you while you fell apart on the kitchen floor, and now he regrets it. He has seen behind your mask, seen the pathetic, needy thing you really are, and he wants nothing to do with it.
The thought is poison, burning through my veins worse than any amount of tequila ever could. It confirms everything I’ve always believed about myself, everything my family conditioned me to expect. That my authentic self is fundamentally unlovable, an emotional and social write-off.
This is why I cut my family off—to escape that feeling of being perpetually auditioned for love and always falling short—but now it’s on replay with Maine. Like with my family, he saw past the performance to the chaotic, messy center and decided to withdraw his affection with surgical precision.
So, no more.
The show must go on, but nobody gets to see behind the curtain.
