Page 52 of The Beautiful Collision
Four words. That’s all it takes to reduce me to the scared little girl who used to reorganize her bookshelf alphabetically when her parents fought, because if everything was in perfect order, maybe they’d notice. Maybe they’d say, “Look how good Maya is and how she doesn’t cause problems.”
Except I did cause problems, didn’t I?
By choosing nursing over law.
By throwing parties instead of attending networking events.
By being too loud, too much, too everything they didn’t want me to be.
The apartment door opens before I can fully spiral, and Maine stumbles in looking like death warmed over. He’s in his Pizza Plus uniform and there are dark circles under his eyes as he moves with the careful precision of someone who’s running on fumes and determination.
Instead of heading straight for me, trying to get in my pants, Maine gives a half-hearted wave in my general direction while making a beeline for the fridge. Fitting, because if I’ve learned anything about him, he doesn’t function well on an empty stomach.
His hand is already reaching for the handle before he’s fully stopped moving, like a drowning man grasping for the last life preserver on a sinking ship. But when he opens it, his shoulders sag, as the inside light illuminates exactly what I already know is there: a lot of nothing.
On his side, anyway.
His hand hovers for a moment before grabbing the single beer in there, and when he closes the door, he just stands there, leaning against the counter like it’s the only thing keeping himupright. He’s clearly hungry, but there’s no food of his own to eat.
Something inside me cracks at the sight.
Because I recognize that pose and the weight on those shoulders, the exhaustion that goes deeper than just needing sleep. It’s the same exhaustion that comes from pretending everything’s fine when everything is decidedly not fine.
He’s broke.
Really, truly, eating-cereal-for-dinner broke, even with my rent money coming in. And he’s been hiding it behind that megawatt smile and those terrible jokes and the endless parade of shirtless workouts and the mind-blowing sex of the past few days.
Just like I hide behind parties and a carefully cultivated reputation as someone who doesn’t give a fuck about anything.
I’m moving before I really decide to, the blanket sliding off my shoulders as I stand. There’s lasagna in the fridge—my meal prep for the week—so I grab Tuesday’s container and slap it in the microwave. But even as it hums, Maine hasn’t looked at me or said anything.
He’s just staring at that beer like it holds the secrets of the universe, or at least the secret to making it through another week without collapsing. He probably doesn’t like his housemate (and fuck-buddy?) seeing that he’s got nothing to eat and no money to buy food, so I try not to make a big deal about it.
When the microwave does its work, I don’t say anything. Don’t make a joke about him looking like an extra from a zombie movie. Don’t point out that beer isn’t actually a food group. Instead, I move into his space, and before I can overthink it, I wrap my arms around him.
He goes rigid for a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with gentleness that doesn’t come with a price tag. Then he melts into it, just a little, his chin dropping to rest on top of myhead. We stand there in his kitchen, me hugging him like he’s going to disappear if I let go.
But it’s more than that. Because I can feel him letting me hold him up when he probably hasn’t let anyone do that in years. I can feel his exhaustion in the way he leans into me, careful not to put too much weight but unable to stay completely upright.
When the microwave beeps I pull back and grab the container. The lasagna steams as I slide it across the counter to him, along with a fork from the drawer. There are still no words, because I don’t even know what I’d say, but the gesture is clear. He looks down at it, then up at me.
And when his eyes meet mine, the expression on his face hits me like a physical force. Raw gratitude that someone noticed, the look of someone who’s so used to being the caretaker, the strong one, the one who handles everything, that they’ve forgotten what it feels like to be cared for.
It’s the same look I probably had when I woke up under his sister’s blanket.
“Thanks, Maya,” he says.
Two words, more intimate than any of the times we’ve been naked together.
eighteen
MAINE
The club isa study in sensory overload—strobing lights that turn the crowd into a stop-motion film of writhing bodies, bass that pounds so hard it replaces my heartbeat, and the mingled scents of sweat, cologne, and spilled liquor creating a cloud of Saturday-night desperation.
Perfect.
Chaos and mess and irresponsibility.
