Page 33 of The Beautiful Collision
Well, fuck, she looks like microwaved death.
Chloe sags against the doorframe, because standing is just another thing trying to kill her. Her gray-tinged skin says oxygen’s a luxury her lungs can’t afford, and the circles under her eyes have evolved from shadows to full-blown bruises.
“Hey buddy,” my dad says, and I can tell he’s calculating gas mileage and lost wages. “Chloe had a rough morning. Thought maybe a change of scenery…”
Translation: We’re one bad day from complete breakdown and you’re the only respite care that doesn’t charge.
The familiar weight crushes down on my shoulders—responsibility wrapped in resentment wrapped in love wrapped in bone-deep exhaustion. They came here without asking because they know I’ll never say no, despite whatever is going on with me.
But my mouth’s already moving, performing the script written before I could read. “Of course. Jesus, Chlo, are you trying out for The Walking Dead?”
She manages a laugh that deteriorates into a wheeze, then uses a word most eight-year-olds aren’t allowed to, but she has a special permit for. “Asshole.”
“Language,” Mom says on autopilot, hands already excavating her purse. “Her four o’clock meds are in the front pocket—blue pills only, not white, because she already had those—and her peak flow meter’s in there too. If she drops below 200?—“
“Emergency room, I know.” I take Chloe’s elbow, accepting her weight like I’ve been doing since she was three and I was ten and nobody thought to ask if I was strong enough. She’s lighter than last time. Always lighter. “We’ve danced this dance, Mom.”
“The nebulizer’s in the car. I can?—“
“I have one here.”
The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. Mom blinks like she’s just remembering I exist beyond convenient respite care. Because yeah, I bought a fucking nebulizer with money I didn’t have because she forgot to bring one last time, and now I hide it under my bed like drug paraphernalia. Just in case.
“Oh.” Relief and guilt wage war across Mom’s features. “Maine, honey, you didn’t have to?—“
“It’s fine,” I lie.
Nothing about this is fine, but what else can I say?
Hi, I’m Maine, I’m drowning in debt and my breakfast was water from the tap.
But it doesn’t matter, because the lie isn’t probed at all. They don’t ask how classes are going (badly). They don’t ask about hockey (better go pro if any of us want to eat). They don’t ask why my jeans hang loose or why my hands sometimes shake from caffeine substituting for calories.
Because I’m fine. Always have been. Have always had to be.
“Two hours.” Dad’s already backing away, keys jangling the retreat. “Three tops. We just need to?—“
“Take your time.” The smile feels carved into my face with a rusty skate. “We’re good here.”
They’re gone before the door fully closes, leaving me with my sister’s labored breathing and the familiar feeling that I’m the last resort dressed up as the first choice. And?—
“Was that your family?”
Maya’s voice cuts through my pity party. Right. She witnessed that whole pathetic production. Nothing says “sex-god potential” or “relationship material” like watching a grown man get treated like unpaid nursing staff by his parents. But I can’t think about that now, because Maya and the bet are the furthest things from my mind.
So I just nod, and she retreats to the kitchen as I guide Chloe to the couch. “Easy does it, Chlo. Couch sweet couch.”
“She’s pretty,” Chloe manages once she’s settled, even with lungs operating at forty percent capacity. “Good bone structure.”
“That’s a weird fucking thing to notice.” I arrange pillows behind her back exactly how she likes—two vertical, one horizontal.
“She keeps looking over here.” Chloe’s eyes, sharp despite the exhaustion, track Maya’s movement. “Like she’s checking on you.”
“She’s probably running from your germs.” I tuck her blanket-covered feet under a cushion. “Some people are weird about lung diseases. Can’t imagine why.”
“Maine.” Her serious voice sounds wrong filtered through wheezing. “You look skinny. And tired. Like, more tired than usual.”
“I’m fine.” The response is hardwired into my DNA along with the genetic inability to ask for help. “Let me get your blanket. Try not to die while I’m gone.”
