Page 30 of The Beautiful Collision
They see vulnerability. They see prey.
And that’s justnoton.
The idea that anyone couldplayme, especially Maine… ha!
“End of the semester,” I say. “He says he loves me, or the equivalent of it, or I do a naked run across campus.”
Sophie’s coffee suspends mid-sip, her concerned expression frozen in real-time. Jenny’s bubble gum highlighter hovers, forgotten. Priya looks around at the others, trying to figure out if I’m joking and to take the pulse of the group, then just stares at me.
It’s situation and stakes combining into an explosion.
And it’s glorious.
Sophie’s voice cracks. “Maya, that’s—Maine doesn’t do relationships.”
“Ex-act-ly.” My smile sharpens. “Which makes winning so delicious.”
Jenny is fidgeting with her drugstore acrylics now. “But what if you lose?—“
I grin. “When I win, same stakes for the three of you. A streak across campus.”
Blood drains from their faces in synchronized horror, pure mortification in triplicate. The magnitude settles heavy, final, and sterile. This transcends Maine now. This is about power, about proving I don’t need parental money or approval, and Icertainlydon’t need my friends to think I’m some victim.
But it’s about more than that, even I’ll admit that (to myself only!). It’s about attaching stakes to my cold war with Maine—finding a reason to turn it hot—because the current tensionhas me unable to think, unable to study, unable to doanythingwithout hisstupid(delicious) abs flashing through my mind.
It’s lust channeled to a purpose.
It’s containing nuclear fission for good, before it destroys me.
“Deal?” My hand extends across the table, steady as a suture.
They stack trembling hands on mine—Jenny’s arctic, Priya’s slick with anxiety, and Sophie’s carrying the weight of someone who’s held my hair through tequila poisoning, who knows exactly how far I’ll push any point, and who knows there’s no denying the gravity of Maya.
“Deal,” they whisper.
I recline, satisfaction flooding warm as morphine, even as they go back to studying. But no amount of studying will make them realize their blind spot: men like Maine run on code so predictable you could publish it in textbooks, and I perfected its programming years ago.
The man loves me already, and he doesn’t know it.
And these girls have lost so badly, they may as well get their tits out now.
My phone vibrates. It’s my mother:
Your sister graduated top of her class at Harvard Med. You might like to call her.
I might like to replyfuck right off, but I don’t.
It’s just another reminder that, among my family, I’m the outcast. The black sheep. Some would view that as a tragedy, but I’ve turned it into my identity, which is why the other girls taking pity on me and assuming I’m the victim stung so bad. And why I want to reclaim my space—my status—with them and Maine.
Because with my family?
Well, there’s no looking back there.
“Ladies,” I rise with choreographed grace. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a cardiac arrest to induce.”
Their stunned faces track my exit out of the library, and I make sure to add an extra hip sway because confidence is half performance, half delusion. My boots announce each step with authority, disturbing everyone else in the library and getting every set of male—and some female—eyeballs on my ass.
Every stride feels electric.
