Page 48 of The Beautiful Collision
The living room is exactly as we left it. There are red cups on every surface, someone’s forgotten jacket draped over the couch, and the sticky residue of spilled drinks on the coffee table—all of it evidence of the chaos I orchestrated to make him feel better.
God, when did I become someone who throws parties to cheer up boys with sad eyes?
I should clean up. Be productive. Focus on anything excepthim. But even as I grab a trash bag and start collecting empties, Sophie’s knowing look haunts me. She sees too much, understands too much, and knows that my carefully constructed walls aren’t as solid as I pretend.
But they have to be.
Because the alternative—feeling something for Maine—isn’t an option.
Not when my family just reminded me that emotional investment is a luxury I can’t afford. Not when being vulnerable means risking rejection from someone who actually matters. So, instead, we’ll keep it casual, the boundary established.
Back to control. Back to safety.
sixteen
MAINE
My mother’svoice sounds brittle through the phone, like she’s been crying and trying to hide it. “The new medication isn’t hitting the way they hoped.”
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, staring at a water stain on the wall that looks like Australia if you squint. The familiar weight settles on my chest, that specific and shitty brand of helplessness that comes with every Chloe update.
“Define ‘not hitting,’” I say, keeping my voice light, because that’s my job.
There’s a long pause and a sigh. “Yesterday was... it was rough, honey.”
Honey.She only calls me that when things are terrible.
“How rough are we talking? Scale of one to ten?”
“Seven.” The word comes out strangled. “Maybe eight.”
Fuck.
“But we’re managing,” she adds quickly, because that’s what we do. We manage. We cope. We survive. “The doctor says there’s another option, but it’s?—“
“Expensive,” I finish for her.
The silence on the other end tells me everything. I can picture her in their cramped kitchen, probably still in her grocery storeuniform because she picked up an extra shift. My dad’s probably passed out on the couch after his overnight, still wearing his boots because taking them off requires energy he doesn’t have.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says, and the forced cheerfulness in her voice makes something crack inside me. “We always do.”
“Mom.” I close my eyes, already doing the math in my head. I’ve got maybe four hundred saved up—my buffer from the past few weeks of not having to pay Maya’s half of the rent or utilities. It’s supposed to be my safety net, my just-in-case fund for when life inevitably kicks me in the teeth again.
Or the money to pay off the guys if I decide to make a go of things with Maya.
I sigh. “How much?”
“No, Maine. Absolutely not. That’s not why I called?—“
“How much, Mom?”
Another silence.
Then she speaks so quietly I almost miss it. “Three-fifty for the copay. But we can work out a payment plan, and your father gets paid tom?—“
“I’m sending it.”
“Maine Hamilton, you will do no such thing!”
