Page 47 of The Beautiful Collision
“Right.” She sets her empty mug on the side table. “Can I ask you something, Maya?”
I tense. Sophie’s ‘can I ask you something?’ questions are never simple. “Depends on what it is.”
“Why Maine?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you could have any guy on campus.Literallyany guy. So why your boisterous, complicated, financially dependentroommate who you’ve been playing sexual chicken with for weeks?” She smirks. “Do you just love the drama so much? Or the fact that you’ve finally found your match?”
Found my match.
The way she says it, it’s all about the performance.
The Maine Show and the Wild Stallion.
But she doesn’t know that, once the lights go out, Idofeel a connection. A match. Hedesperatelyneeds someone to look afterhimfor once, to tell him he doesn’tneedto be OK all the time. And I need someone who’ll accept me for who I am—love me for who I am—even if that’s messy and complicated.
And the undercurrent of sizzling attraction and constant banter doesn’t hurt, either.
I saw him at his worst and wanted to make him feel better. I was drowning in family rejection and bone-deep loneliness, and he helped me remember I was worth something. He’s the only person who’s ever matched my energy, challenged me, and made me work for it.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I smile. “Because he’s hot, and when I’m with him, I feel like I’m finally playing against someone in my league,” I lie. “And, despite all his other flaws, Maine Hamilton definitely knows what he’s doing in bed.”
Sophie makes a noncommittal sound that suggests she’s not buying what I’m selling. But before she can probe deeper, I’m saved by Mike emerging from their bedroom, hair still damp from his shower, Sophie’s eyes tracking him and her face lighting up.
“Morning, ladies,” he says, heading straight for the coffee pot. “How’s the hangover situation?”
“Manageable,” I reply, grateful for the interruption.
“Good.” He glances between us, clearly sensing the tension but smart enough not to comment on it. “Still want brunch, Soph?”
“Yeah, we should head out soon,” Sophie says, but her eyes stay on me. “Are you coming?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I have clinical prep to do,” I lie, again, because I’m not sure my flimsy story about Maine and I will hold up to any more scrutiny.
And because I’m not ready to have those conversations, even in my head.
“OK.” She stands, stretching. “But we’re talking more about this later.”
I flip her off with a smile that sayslove you too, bitch, and she laughs. This is why Sophie’s my best friend—she knows when to push and when to let me be—but Mike’s puttering in the kitchen gives me the cover I need to finally compose my message.
I stare at the screen, channeling every ounce of the control I’m desperately trying to maintain. No sweet morning-after messages. No acknowledgment of his family drama ormyfamily drama or the way he fell apart in my arms. Just pure, uncomplicated directive.
Tonight. 9:00 p.m. Don’t be late.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The message delivers instantly, and I shove my phone into my pocket before I can obsess over read receipts.
“I should go,” I announce, standing abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee and the judgment-free zone.”
“Who said it was judgment-free?” Sophie snorts. But she hugs me anyway, tight and warm and understanding. “Just be careful, OK?”
“Always am.”
It’s another lie, but we both pretend it isn’t.
The walk back to my apartment—our apartment—takes twelve minutes. I know because I count every step, trying to figure out what I’ll say and how to play it if Maine’s there.Casual? Aloof? Pretend nothing happened until 9:00 p.m., when I summon him to my bed again?
But as I unlock our door and step into the apartment that still smells faintly of last night’s party and what we did after, I can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted. He’s not home, but he fills the room—and my thoughts—in ways he didn’t twenty-four hours ago.
