Page 15 of The Beautiful Collision
$127.43.
The number burns as much as this overpriced coffee, because I’ve got that much cash—and not much time to turn it around—after I managed to scrape together rent for another month. And, by scrape, I mean work about sixty hours in a week while also studying and playing hockey.
Sitting in Pine Barren Bagels, I’m listening to the espresso machine shriek while some chick absolutely loses her shit into a textbook two tables over. Her friend is promising her that the class isn’t important anyway, because lying to each other is what friends are for.
But at least she’s probably got more than $127.43 to her name.
I slouch deeper into the cracked vinyl booth, throwing one arm across the back where someone has carved JESSICA SAYERS GIVES GOOD HEAD. The statement is accurate, because I’ve got firsthand knowledge, and I’m glad for the distraction as my knees bounce a rhythm that’s half caffeine, half barely contained panic.
But when the bell above the door chimes, my nervous system goes haywire.
MayafuckingHayes.
Jesus Christ on skates.
I’ve seen her around—everyone’s seen her—and we’ve even partied from time to time. The last time I saw her, she threw a rager so epic that Pine Barrens PD needed backup from the state troopers. But seeing her at keggers is different from watching her slice through Saturday morning likethis.
She doesn’t walk, she detonates into spaces and totally fills the room, black ponytail swinging with military precision. She’s dynamite in designer denim—curves that make my mouth go dry, breasts that test the structural integrity of her V-neck, and an ass that should come with a warning label.
And the whole package is wrapped in bulletproof confidence.
She doesn’t even seek me out as she goes to the counter to order, but I sure as hell watch her. Conversations stutter and die in her wake, guys lock onto her ass and girls can barely hide their jealousy, and even the barista fumbles her change after she orders.
As she waits, it’s clear she doesn’t care what anyone around her thinks, but she’s not some drone staring at her phone, either. She watches everything and everyone, and when her coffee is ready she walks my way and slides into the opposite booth without asking.
I get a whiff of some expensive scent—something citrus—because of course she smells like a spa. Of course she makes everyone else look like we crawled out of last night’s poor decisions. Of course my sprawl suddenly feels like exactly what it is: a performance by a guy whose checking account is flatlining.
And, as I sit up a little straighter, her dark eyes scan me once. Full diagnostic. I watch her catalog every tell: the way I’m strangling this mug, how my jaw’s clenched tight enough to crack teeth, the fact that I’m bouncing my knee hard enough to register on the Richter scale.
“Maine,” she says.
But I’m speechless, even as I scream silently inside my head, because this is not how this works. I don’t get intimidated. I’m two hundred and twenty pounds of functional mass that hits people for a living, then I celebrate so loud I get noise complaints. I’m the life of the party—hell, Iamthe party—so what’s this?
The answer is clear: salvation, desire, and intimidation, all wrapped into one.
“I was starting to think you stood me up,” I manage, excavating my trademark grin from whatever hole my confidence crawled into. “Would’ve destroyed me.”
Zero reaction. Not a twitch. Those eyes just keep performing their live autopsy while I sweat through my undershirt. The silence stretches longer than my last relationship—which lasted exactly two and a half dates before I remembered feelings are for people who can afford therapy—and I wonder who’ll break first.
Finally, she sighs, and I score my first win. “Let’s skip the part where you try to charm me. I’m immune, and you’re wasting both our time.”
She pulls out her phone—the latest model, case that probably cost more than my last three grocery runs combined—and places it down between us. On the screen, I can see she’s written out a lot of stuff, like a meeting agenda for this ‘could we be roommates?’ session.
Fuck, my only prep was sleeping an extra hour. So five in total.
“Compatibility assessment.” She leans back. “We’re both desperate enough to be here, so let’s skip the bullshit performance.”
I nod, even as my knuckles go white around the mug, and even as I want to protest. But it’s clear she’s not buying the fiction that I’m just casually browsing for someone to splitutilities with, and definitely not one missed paycheck from couch-surfing or park-bench-surfing.
That ship already sailed, hit an iceberg, and Leo DiCaprio’s already frozen. I could blame Mike—because I told him and he told Sophie and Sophie probably told Maya—but the truth of my exhaustion should be obvious to anyone who’s looking.
And if Maya can do anything, it’s read people.
She continues without waiting for me to reply. “I host parties once a month. They involve music that makes your teeth rattle, randoms passed out in creative positions by 3:00 a.m., and enough booze to fill several bathtubs. Is that going to trigger your delicate sensibilities?”
Finally.
Something I recognize.
