Page 94 of The Beautiful Collision
“I don’t want to hear that he’s sorry, or that he’s hurting,” I continue, each word feeling deep and raw. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t change anything.”
The words are firm, but there’s no venom in them. Because I’m not angry anymore. I’m just… empty. Hollowed out. Like someone took a spoon and scraped out everything soft and hopeful, everything strong and vibrant, leaving only the shell.
Sophie nods, respecting the boundary even though I can see she wants to push. It’s what makes her such a good nurse and such a good friend. But right now, she’s reading the room, seeing that I’m not ready for whatever information she’s carrying about Maine.
Even thinking his name sends a fresh wave of pain through me.
Instead of pushing, she does something unexpected. She sets down her tea and shifts closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. The touch is warm, solid, real in a way nothing has felt real since that night at O’Neil’s. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to fix it or explain it away or tell me everything will be OK.
She just holds me.
And that simple, unconditional physical comfort is what finally breaks through the wall I’ve built around my heart. And, a few moments later, the tears come quietly, sliding down my cheeks in hot tracks that drip onto the jersey I shouldn’t be wearing.
I collapse against her, my body folding into hers like I’m trying to disappear. She adjusts, pulling me closer, her hand rubbing slow circles on my back. The maternal gesture undoes me further. When was the last time someone just held mewithout wanting something? Without conditions or expectations or agendas?
Maine did. On the kitchen floor.
The thought comes unbidden, and I push it away with extreme vengeance, but it keeps coming back. That night after my patient died, when I was nothing but a mess of grief and professional doubt, he sat with me, held me, and asked for nothing in return.
But he was playing a game.
Was he?
The internal argument is exhausting.
Everything is exhausting.
I don’t know what was real and what was fake.
And that’s the hardest pain of all.
We stay like that for a long time, my silent tears soaking into Sophie’s sweater while she murmurs nonsense comfort sounds. Eventually, the tears slow, leaving me feeling wrung out and hollow. The shame surfaces then—shame at how I’ve acted, how I’ve pushed her away, how I’ve been such a terrible friend.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper against her shoulder. “For how I acted. I’ve been a shitty friend.”
Sophie pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands on my shoulders. “You’re allowed to be a mess,” she says firmly. “That’s what I’m here for.”
The simple acceptance makes my eyes burn again, and as we settle back into the couch, I can feel Sophie gathering herself for something. She’s got that look—the one that means she’s about to say something I don’t want to hear but need to—and, this time, I figure she’s earned it.
“What he did with that bet?” she starts, her voice careful but steady. “It was unforgivable, and you have every right to be furious.”
I nod, waiting for thebutthat I know is coming.
“But…” There it is. “Chloe’s really sick, Maya. The doctors are talking about last-ditch experimental treatments, and his family can’t afford it.”
The words cut through my grief.
Chloe. That pale, fragile girl who could barely breathe but who had a bright smile and looked at Maine like he was Superman. The girl he was so gentle with, who he’s sacrificed so much for, who managed to strip away the Maine Show and show the real man beneath. The girl whose blanket?—
My eyes drop to the quilt sitting over my legs. The patchwork of faded florals that he draped over me that night when I fell asleep studying. The sacred thing from his most authentic self, which hehadn’t managed to pick up yetand take to Mike’s apartment.
Hadn’t managed? Or hadn’t wanted to?
“How sick?” I hear myself ask, even though knowing will make everything harder.
“ICU sick,” Sophie says quietly. “When he’s not sleeping on our couch, he’s been in the hospital room.”
The image forms in my mind before I can stop it: Maine, folded into one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, dark circles under his eyes. The performer, the loudmouth, the charmer, the player—all of it stripped away, leaving just a terrified brother keeping vigil.
