Page 101 of The Beautiful Collision
I look at Chloe’s picture on the website again. She has Maine’s eyes, that same bright blue that goes soft when he’s actually feeling something real. The same stubborn jaw that sets when he’s determined not to show weakness. Like Maine, she deserves help. And unlike Ethan, she deserves a chance.
I can’t save Ethan,I think.But maybe I can help save you.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m sitting in our shared apartment, surrounded by the ghost of Maine’s presence, building a lifeline for his sister while I still can’t bring myself to text him. But this feels right. This feels like something I can control, something I can fix.
My phone lights up with another notification.
The campaign page already has twelve shares.
Then thirteen.
Fourteen.
Twenty.
Fifty.
The party legend isn’t just a persona anymore. She’s a weapon. And I’m aiming her at the universe’s casual cruelty, onedonor at a time. But it’s not enough to get money out of others, so I throw my donation into the mix, as much as I can afford.
Because this is about a boy I couldn’t save and a girl who still has a chance.
This is about doing something, anything, that matters.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I draft my donation message.
Sometimes love isn’t words. Sometimes it’s action. It’s needing someone, and them needing you. It’s showing up even when they don’t ask or know you’re there.
thirty-seven
MAINE
The two-hour drivefrom campus to my parents’ house stretches through the dark. My hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the crushing weight in my chest, after a call I got from my parents.
We have to sell the house.
Six words. That’s all it took to demolish twenty-two years of my life.
The house where Chloe took her first wheezing steps. Where I learned to ride a bike in the driveway. Where Dad built that ridiculous ramp in the backyard because Chloe wanted to learn to skateboard even though she could barely breathe after walking up stairs.
The house that held every birthday, every crisis, every small victory against the disease that’s been slowly stealing my sister since the day she was born.
And now it’s gone. Or soon will be. Another casualty of medical bills that multiply faster than cancer cells, of insurance companies that find new ways to deny coverage, of a system that forces families to choose between a roof and a heartbeat.
My fault.
The thought pounds in my skull with every mile marker I pass.
If I’d been better. Smarter. Maybe we wouldn’t be here.
Maybe my parents wouldn’t have to pack up twenty-three years of memories.
My phone, face-down in the cupholder, buzzes with another text. Mike, probably. Or maybe Rook with some stupid meme he thinks will cheer me up. I don’t check. There’s nothing anyone can say that will fix this, and I’m only really going home to be with my parents… help them… support them.
They’re back home from the hospital for just a few hours to sign the papers.
That’s what kills me about today—how fuckinggoodit had been after I’d confessed everything to the team. After months of carrying everything, telling them about Chloe, about the money, and about the bet, had been like finally exhaling a breath I’d been holding since September.
They’d rallied around me. Not with pity, but with the kind of gruff, shoulder-checking support that hockey players excel at. Practice had been perfect. For two hours, I’d remembered what it felt like to just be a hockey player again. My passes connected. I even scored a beauty of a goal.
