Page 117 of The Beautiful Collision
As we shower and then get dressed—him in jeans and the team hoodie I got him for Christmas, me in leggings and one of his old jerseys—I think about how different this feels from a few months ago. Then, we were two people playing games, too scared to be vulnerable, too proud to admit we needed each other.
Now, we’re partners in the truest sense.
“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand.
I take it without hesitation. “Ready.”
We walk out of the apartment hand-in-hand, toward an uncertain future. Chloe’s treatment might work, or it might not. There will be setbacks and victories, tears and laughter. But for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of the mess.
Because I’m walking right at it, with the guy I choose to be at my side, and without any of the baggage weighing me down. And he’s right there with me, the Maine Show 2.0, still as funny and chaotic and downright fuckingsexyas he’s always been, but now with a creamy center because he’s not afraid to ask for help.
As we lock up, Maine pulls me against his side, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being you. For being here. For everything.”
I turn in his arms, reaching up to cup his face and give him another kiss. “That’s what partners do.”
The elevator dings, and we step inside, still holding hands. As the doors close, I catch our reflection in the mirrored walls—rumpled, exhausted, but glowing with something that transcends the physical satisfaction of what we just shared. We look like what we are.
A beautiful mess, sure.
But also a team.
And whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
epilogue
MAYA
The new apartmentsmells like possibility, fresh paint, sawdust…
…and that specific brand of chaos that comes from mixing IKEA furniture with Mike Altman’s questionable assembly skills. From my perch on the stepladder, paintbrush dripping white onto the drop cloth below, I watch him squint at the cryptic diagrams like they’re written in ancient Sumerian.
“That piece goes there,” Sophie says patiently, pointing at the instructions.
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Because it’s backwards.”
“It’s not—“ Mike rotates the piece, tries again. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Sophie mimics, catching my eye and flashing a look of fond exasperation.
The late summer sun floods through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our Philadelphia apartment, turning dust motes into tiny dancers and highlighting the organized chaos of moving day. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, all ours in a new city.
Boxes labeled in Maine’s terrible handwriting (“STUFF” and “MORE STUFF” and my personal favorite, “MAYA’S STUFF”) are stacked against walls, while I jealously survey Sophie’sfarmore sophisticated packing system, which involved precisely no involvement from Mike.
My gaze catches on the thick cream envelope propped against a box near the door. Forwarded from Pine Barren, because of course my parents still don’t know my new address. The Hayes family crest gleams gold in the afternoon light, as pretentious as ever. Inside, I’m sure the calligraphy is perfect.
Two years ago, I would have ripped open the letter, desperate to be accepted.
Now?
Now I look at it and feel… nothing.
No anger.
No desperate need to prove myself.
No aching desire for their approval.
