Page 107 of The Beautiful Collision
Each report has chipped away at the image I’ve built of him as the villain in our story. Because villains don’t forfeit bets that would cost them money they don’t have. Villains don’t admit their failures to a roomful of guys they’ve spent years entertaining. Villains don’t look like shit because they can’t forgive themselves.
The truth is messier and infinitely more painful: Maine isn’t a villain. He’s a terrified, deeply flawed guy who’s made a catastrophic mistake out of pride and fear. He’s someone who’s been drowning for so long he doesn’t know how to accept a life preserver when someone throws him one.
I know all of this. I’ve analyzed it with the same clinical detachment I use for memorizing drug interactions and diagnostic criteria. Understanding the pathology of our destruction has become my favorite late-night hobby, right up there with stress-eating ice cream straight from the container.
But knowing something intellectually andfeelingit are two entirely different things.
Standing there, watching him try to disappear into a crowd that gathered specifically for his sister, something inside me just… breaks. Or maybe it finally heals. And, suddenly, the clipboard in my hand feels like a prop in a play I’m tired of performing.
What’s left is just me.
The woman who loves him.
Is still hurt, still mad, but still loves him.
My body moves before my brain can construct a list of reasons why this is a terrible idea. I shove my clipboard at Sophie and ask her to take over. My headset follows, tossedonto the registration table with absolutely zero regard for the volunteer who’ll have to untangle the cord later.
“Maya?” Sophie calls after me, but I’m already moving, pushing through the crowd toward the starting line.
This can’t be another conversation full of emotional landmines and carefully constructed defenses. We’ve already tried that, and look where it’s gotten us—him on Mike’s couch and me reorganizing his bedroom into a yoga studio I’ve used exactly once because it still smells like him.
No, this has to be something else.
Something honest.
The starting gun has already fired by the time I make the decision. I spot Maine’s broad shoulders about fifty yards ahead, his pace steady but not competitive. And the fact that he isn’t at the front of the pack, one of the fittest guys in the field, an athlete with pro potential, tells me plenty.
He knows this isn’t about him.
It isn’t a performance or something to be won for bragging rights.
It’s about Chloe.
My legs burn as I pick up speed, weaving through the slower runners with an urgency that has nothing to do with race times. A few people call out to me—volunteers recognizing their coordinator abandoning her post—but I don’t stop.
Can’t stop.
When I finally catch up to him, I deliberately fall into step a few feet away. Close enough that he has to know I’m there, far enough that he can pretend not to notice if that’s what he needs. His head turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the widening of his eyes, the way his stride stutters for half a second before recovering.
We don’t speak, because we don’t need to.
And for the last ten minutes, our bodies have been doing all the talking—each synchronized breath, each footfall on the asphalt becoming its own form of communication. The crowd around us fades into white noise. There’s just him and me and the rhythm of our feet hitting the ground in perfect tandem.
Left, right, left, right.
I’m here.
Left, right, left, right.
I see you.
Left, right, left, right.
I’m sorry.
Left, right, left, right.
I know.
