Page 37 of The Beautiful Collision
“You know,” I say, injecting false brightness into my voice like it’s top-shelf vodka, “I think this apartment is too quiet. It’s depressing.”
He lifts his head slowly, confused. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears, and the sight makes something crack open in my chest. “What?”
“I think,” I push myself to standing, forcing energy I don’t feel into every movement, “we need to have a party tonight.”
The suggestion hangs in the air between us, absurd and desperate and completely inappropriate. Here’s this man, hollowed out by family obligation and invisible love, and my solution is essentiallyhave you tried turning it off and on again?
But it’s my only move.
It’s my armor and my weapon against the crushing weight of real emotion. If I can’t fix his pain, maybe I can drown it out. If I can’t make his family see him, maybe I can fill this apartment with people who will, even if it’s just for a few hours, even if it’s not real.
“Maya…” His voice is hoarse, confused. “I don’t have money for?—“
“Don’t worry.” I wave my hand like I’m dispelling smoke, like money isn’t the reason I’m living in his apartment in the first place. “I have a plan. And breasts.”
What I don’t say:I’ll call in every favor I have left. I’ll beg people I swore I’d never speak to again. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you smile again, even if it’s fake, even if it’s just for tonight. Because watching you with your sister wassimultaneously the most wonderful and heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen.
What I don’t say:This is the only way I know how to care for someone.
What I don’t say:I’m terrified of what happens when the party ends.
twelve
MAINE
Fucking hell,this girl knows how to party.
The transformation of our apartment from domestic war zone to sister care HQ to party central was so fast it gave me whiplash. One minute I was on the floor, emotionally emptied, and the next Maya’s got music pumping so loud I can feel the bass in my teeth.
I’m running on fumes, playing host on autopilot. The Maine Show, back for another sold-out performance. Nobody needs to know that three hours ago I was sitting against that same door, choking on family obligations and the familiar ache of being needed but not seen.
Because every time I feel my tanks running empty, I look at her.
Maya, moving through the crowd like she owns it.
Not just hosting this party, but conducting it like a symphony.
I watch her introduce two guys from different social circles with a quip that makes them both laugh, instantly bonding them. She steers a drunk girl away from a creepy dude with such finesse the girl doesn’t even realize she’s been rescued.Every gesture, every laugh, every perfectly timed joke—it’s all deliberate.
She’s not just good at this. She’s a goddamn virtuoso.
This afternoon, from the time my parents lobbed Chloe on my doorstep to the minute the door was closed behind them, she’d been perfect. She’d deployed coffee for me and candy for Chloe and been there right at the few moments where I felt like I was falling apart.
Not asking, not smothering, just… perfect.
But this is different.
Now the party has started—now the room is bright and full and loud—Maya is performing just as hard as I am. The party girl persona, the wild reputation, the way she commands attention without seeming to need it… it’s all a show. I’m equal parts intimidated and turned on by it.
But I also want to know why she needs this as much as I do?
“Yo, Maine!” Mike’s voice cuts through my analysis. “Are you planning to stand there all night like a decoration, or are you going to make a move?”
Right.
The bet.
I tear my gaze away from Maya to find half the hockey team watching me with varying degrees of amusement. Rook’s already got his phone out, probably updating the betting pool group chat. And Mike’s giving me that look that says he’s just waiting for the show to begin.
