Page 83 of The Beautiful Collision
“Maya!” Sophie’s voice cuts through my spiral, sharp and insistent now. Her hand is on my arm. “Are you even listening to me? I’m worried?—“
But I can’t deal with it.
Can’t deal with her concern or her pity or her knowing looks.
“I’m great, I’m out, I’m having fun, and I’m being exactly who everyone expects me to be. So why don’t you and the worry committee”—I gesture dismissively at our friends, who are watching with varying degrees of concern and discomfort—“head home, because I’m going to stay here and do what I do best.”
“Which is what, exactly?” Sophie asks quietly. “Drink yourself stupid and go home with some random guy who doesn’t know your last name?”
The words hit me like a slap. Because yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
It’s what I always do when things get too real, too messy, too much like actual feelings. I’m going to take control the only way I know how—by choosing to be reckless, by deciding to be wild, by orchestrating my own spectacular failure before anyone else can reject me.
And fuck her for judging me.
“If you don’t like watching, then don’t,” I say with a sweetness that could rot teeth, “we don’t all get to live the fairytale like you and Mike, Sophie.”
Sophie’s face crumples slightly, the hurt clear, and I know I’ve gone too far. But it’s too late. She knows this version ofme—the one who burns bridges when she’s scared, who pushes people away before they can leave—though it’s never been directed at her before.
“Fine,” she says quietly, gathering her purse. “But when you wake up tomorrow feeling like shit, remember that you had people who cared enough to try.”
A moment later, they’re all gone, a collective wave of worried glances and whispered conversations trailing in their wake. The club suddenly feels colder, louder, and lonelier. The space where all my friends had been sitting just a moment ago gapes like a wound.
One of many.
Before I can think too much about it, I take another shot and pivot on my stool to face Henley Guy. He’s been watching the whole exchange with the expression of a lion who’s just watched the rest of the pack leave the weakest gazelle behind, and I knowexactlywhat he’s thinking.
He thinks he’s about to make his move. I can see it in the way he’s already adjusting his posture, preparing his opening line, probably something about buying me a drink or asking if I’m OK. A mix of fake concern and additional liquor to make sure he gets me to bed.
He thinks he’s the one in charge here.
Idiot.
“You’re not just going to stare all night, are you?” I say, my voice pitched low and challenging.
Before he can formulate an answer—I can actually see his brain short-circuiting as he tries to catch up to me taking charge—I slide off my stool and take his hand, noting absently that his palm is slightly sweaty, and pull him toward the dance floor.
The dance floor is a writhing mass of bodies and hormones and desperation. The air is thick with the competing scents of cologne, perfume, and sweat, while the bass from the speakersis so loud I can feel it in my bones, rattling my ribcage like it’s trying to shake something loose.
Good.
Maybe it’ll shake the weight of Maine’s rejection off me.
The moment we find a pocket of space—really just a few square feet of sticky floor—I am a storm of motion. My body moves in a grinding rhythm against his, but it’s not seduction driving me. It’s a frantic need to exhaust the anxiety from my limbs, to burn off the energy of loneliness and despair.
My hands are on his shoulders first, using them as leverage to press closer. Then they slide down to his hips, guiding and controlling, showing him exactly how I want him to move. When he tries to take the lead, to spin me around or pull me against him his way, I resist, keeping control.
I dictate the energy, the rhythm, the distance, and the entire interaction. I pull him closer when I want the friction and push him away when he gets too comfortable, a chaotic push-pull designed to keep him off-balance and me in command.
And through it all, he thinks he’s hit the jackpot.
I can see it in his smug, slack-jawed expression, the way his hands get bolder, sliding from my waist toward my ass. He sees the performance—the wild girl grinding against him, the one who dragged him onto the dance floor, the one who’s clearly down for whatever—and mistakes it for genuine desire.
If only he knew that I can barely feel his hands on me. That my body is moving on autopilot. That every press of his hips against mine just reminds me of another body, one that fit against me perfectly, one that knew exactly how to move with me without my having to guide every motion.
Maine. Always fucking Maine.
Even here, even in the middle of my desperate attempt to forget him, he invades. The guy’s cologne makes me think of Maine’s simpler scent. The way this stranger’s hands grip myhips possessively makes me remember Maine’s gentler touch, how he held me like something precious.
