Page 235 of Beautiful Collide

Her pants are streaked with dirt, and one of my mom’s old flannel shirts hangs loosely around her shoulders.

She’s got hay in her hair, too, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.

She’s . . . beautiful.

It’s stupid to think that, standing here watching her with chickens and eggs, but there it is.

She’s fucking gorgeous.

The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

I’m about to step in when Molly’s voice stops me.

“Growing up, I used to dream of doing stuff like this.” Her voice is practically a whisper, and I have to strain to hear it. “Not a farm, necessarily, but . . . stability.”

Mom doesn’t respond right away.

I want to jump in and rescue my girl from the pain that’s in her voice.

But I don’t. I let her continue with this moment with my mom.

“You didn’t have that growing up?” Mom finally asks.

Molly shakes her head. “Not really. After my parents died, it was . . .” She trails off. “It was rough. I worried about everything. Money, mostly. I didn’t care about being rich—I just wanted us to be okay, you know? I wanted to know that Dane would have food on the table and a roof over his head.”

Her words shock me. I never knew this about her. My chest tightens at her words.

Mom sets down her basket, turning to give Molly her full attention. “That must’ve been hard for a little girl to carry all that.”

“It was,” Molly admits. “But Dane did his best. He worked so hard to take care of me. And when he went pro, everything changed. For the first time, I wasn’t worried anymore. I wasn’t anxious about where the next meal would come from or whether the person I loved most in the world was okay.” She pauses. “That’s all I ever wanted. To know that the people I care about are safe and stable.”

I swallow hard.

God, my throat feels dry.

Molly isn’t just telling her story—she’s telling their story.

My parents’ story.

The one they never say out loud, but regardless, I know it.

And now here’s Molly, sitting in our barn, subtly trying to convince my mom that sometimes it’s okay to let someone help.

To let me help.

My chest feels tight. Maybe my mom will finally understand.

“That’s a beautiful way to look at it, Molly. But . . .” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes pride gets in the way.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“That feels like admitting defeat.” My mom sighs.

Molly looks up at her. “It’s not defeat, though. It’s love.”

My mom stays quiet, listening. I want to walk in there and ask her what she’s thinking. Tell her I love her, and like Dane and Molly, I just want to help them, but I don’t.

“It was hard to let Dane help me,” Molly continues. “But I did because it meant something to him, too. It made him happy to take care of me. To give me the stability I didn’t have before.”

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