Page 20 of The Beautiful Collision
And clean.
Actuallyclean, not just male-clean where you redistribute dirt democratically.
Afternoon light streams through spotless windows onto gleaming hardwood floors. The walls are freshly painted beige that shows no evidence of previous tenants. It even smells clean, a sharp lemon scent cutting through the apartment’s baseline funk.
“I figured you’d want to set it up yourself,” he says, suddenly looking almost shy, one massive hand rubbing the back of his neck. “But I cleaned it yesterday, because Sophie mentioned you’re… particular about that stuff. I got some products from the store and stole some paint from the building super…”
Something warm blooms in my chest, but I can’t form words.
“The closet’s pretty decent, and you’ve got your own bathroom right across the hall,” he continues, words tumblingfaster. “I put the best towels in there—the ones that match and everything—although I figured you might have your own ones…”
He actually tried.
I’d been a standoffish bitch to him at Pine Barren Bagels.
Coming here, I’d behaved like an empress visiting the peasants.
I’d ignored that he’s as fucked as I am, financially, but still, he tried.
He spent money he didn’t have doing something he didn’t need to.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and shock myself by meaning it.
His grin blooms. “Yeah? Cool. I mean, it’s probably not like your old place?—“
“It’s perfect,” I repeat, more firmly, because it feels like a life raft in chaos.
“Maya!” Sophie calls from the living room, breaking the moment. “I have to go!”
The spell between us broken, I follow Maine back to the war zone, where Mike and Rook have resumed their digital violence on the gaming console. My boxes are stacked in the corner with shocking precision, labels facing out, showing that they, also, give a damn.
“Good luck with… all this,” Sophie says, gesturing helplessly at everything. Her hug is fierce and meaningful. “Send an SOS if you need extraction.”
“I’ll survive,” I say, and maybe actually believe it.
“Sure you will,” she whispers, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “He cleaned the room. That’s practically a marriage proposal in boy language.”
Mike goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Welcome to Thunderdome. Try not to civilize us too fast.”
“Yeah,” Rook adds with a grin that promises future chaos. “We’re like zoo animals, so sudden changes to our environment cause stress.”
Maine cracks his beer. “We might start flinging our shit if you move our stuff around.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s Thursday,” he counters.
Mike and Rook go back to their game, and suddenly it’s just me and Maine in the kitchen, the overwhelming silence of reality settling over us. It’s clear he’s less stressed than he has been in ages—I can tell by comparing how shit he looked at the bagel shop versus now—and it’s clear money is the reason.
“So,” he says, rocking back on his heels.
“So,” I echo.
We stand there, surrounded by the detritus of his life and the boxes of mine, two incompatible operating systems trying to run on the same hardware.
“Want a beer to celebrate?” he offers hopefully.
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
