Page 103 of The Beautiful Collision
“You’ve been taking care of yourself since you were fourteen.” The tears are rolling down her cheeks now. “Every time we missed a game because Chloe was in the hospital. Every time you made your own dinner because we were at appointments. Every time you said you were fine when you weren’t… we knew.”
My dad nods. “And we let it happen because it was easier than admitting we couldn’t handle everything, and because we were too exhausted.”
Dad moves around the table, and then his arms are around me. Not the quick, back-slapping hugs we usually trade, but a real embrace. That breaks me completely. I’m sobbing into my father’s shoulder like I’m five years old again, like I’m the kid who could admit when he was scared or hurt or needed help.
Mom joins us, her arms wrapping around both of us, and we stand there in our soon-to-be-sold kitchen, three people who’ve been living on the same sinking ship, finally admitting the water’s coming in too fast to bail out alone, and with no choice but to share the same lifeboat.
When we finally separate, we’re all a mess. Dad has to blow his nose into a paper towel. Mom’s mascara has created abstract art on her cheeks. I probably look like I’ve been hit by a truck, which isn’t far from how I feel. We’re a collective mess thatwouldn’t look out of place on the interstate, being run over by a truck.
“We’ll figure it out,” Dad says.
“Richard, language.”
“The boy’s twenty-two, Susan. I think he’s heard worse on the ice.”
For the first time in months, maybe years, I actually laugh in front of them. Not the performance laugh, not the crowd-pleaser, but the weird, hiccupping sound that happens when you’re emotionally destroyed but something still seems like the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.
We sit back down at the table, shoving aside the paperwork that represents our failures to make room for cups of coffee that Mom insists on making despite everything. It’s terrible coffee—she always makes it too weak—but it tastes like home.
“There is one piece of good news. Small, but…” Mom pulls out her phone, ancient and cracked. “Some group at your school. They’re organizing something.”
She turns the screen toward me, and the world stops. It’s a website. Professional. Clean. And, at the top, in elegant letters, it saysRun for Chloe. There’s a picture of my sister from last summer, laughing despite the oxygen tubes, looking so fierce and alive it makes my chest ache. And below that…
“Thousands of dollars,” Mom whispers. “In just a few hours. The comments… Maine, there are dozens of them. People from your school, people we don’t even know, all…” She’s crying again, but these are different tears. “All wanting to help Chloe get the treatment…”
I take the phone with shaking hands, scrolling through the page. The language is pitch-perfect, compelling without being manipulative. The organization is flawless—sponsors lined up, logistics handled, social media campaign already viral. This isn’t some half-assed campus charity drive.
This is the work of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
Someone who organizes parties that people talk about for months.
Someone who can make order out of chaos with terrifying efficiency.
Someone who once organized a party for me when she couldn’t find the words.
Maya.
Maya did this. Maya, who has every reason to hate me, who should be celebrating my destruction, instead chose to save the thing I love most in the world. She did this for Chloe and for my family.
For me.
thirty-eight
MAINE
The campusathletic fields look like something from another planet.
The empty green space I’ve come to associate with pain—a thousand wind sprints, punishment drills—has been transformed into something I don’t recognize at all. It’s a festival of hope, apparently, with thousands of people gathered with shared purpose.
For Chloe.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as yet another stranger claps me on the back, offering words of encouragement I don’t deserve one bit. “Great cause, man!” someone says. “Fantastic turnout…” another offers hopefully. “Your sister’s lucky to have you!” another calls out.
Lucky.
Lucky would have been a brother who wasn’t too proud to ask for help months ago. Lucky would have been a brother who thought to organize something like this himself, instead of drowning in debt and self-pity while pretending everything was fine.
But as I stand near the starting line, surrounded by hundreds of people wearing blue and white#RunForChloeT-shirts, I’venever felt more like a fraud in my entire life. Not even when I was lying to Maya about the bet, because at least that was all my doing.
