Page 79 of The Beautiful Collision
But as I start the car and drive out of the parking lot I realize that, more than medical knowledge, I just want her. Her hand in mine walking into that sterile nightmare. Her steady presence when my family’s panic threatens to pull us all under.
I need her.
The urge is so powerful I actually turn toward campus before reality crashes back. The bet sits between us like shattered glass. How can I beg for comfort while actively deceiving her? How can I lean on her when she doesn’t know why I’ve been pulling away?
No.
The point is, I’m a walking disaster zone. Even beyond the bet, nobody should deal with this, especially not Maya with her own family trauma, her own battles. This is exactly why I pushed her away. To shield her from the endless crisis that is my life, the deception, the mess of my own making.
You fucked up, now live with it. Alone, like you always do.
twenty-nine
MAINE
When you’re feelingsorry for yourself, life has a way of making you feel like an asshole. That’s my overriding thought as I sit in the ICU room, holding a bedside vigil for my sister, who lookssosmall in the hospital bed. Her face is as pale as the sheets, making the dark circles under her eyes look like bruises.
Her chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths that make my own lungs ache in sympathy for her struggle. Her breaths are so slow, it’s like they’re slowing down time itself. In here, minutes stretch like hours, and the outside world feels impossibly distant.
But she’s holding on.
She’s stable.
The cardiac monitor beeps its electronic heartbeat—steady, mechanical, and comforting in its consistency. Each peak and valley on the screen represents another moment my sister is still fighting. The oxygen hisses through her nasal cannula with a soft, persistent whisper that sounds almost like she’s talking.
My parents haven’t moved in … God, I don’t even know how long. They’re frozen in their matching vinyl chairs like grief has turned them to stone. Mom’s eyes haven’t left Chloe’s face,tracking every tiny movement, every flutter of her eyelashes. Dad stares at her chest, counting breaths like a meditation.
They’re two people, already exhausted, who might just break.
The silence is suffocating. Even the normal hospital sounds from the hallway seem muted, as if the universe has agreed to hold its breath along with us. And, worst of all, there’s nothing I can do about it. Because if there was—anything… lose an arm… swap places with Chloe…—I’d have already done it.
“I’m going to go grab us something,” I say softly, my voice cracking from the first words I’ve managed in almost an hour. “Coffee?”
Dad’s head moves in what might be a nod. Mom doesn’t react at all, her gaze still locked on Chloe like she can keep her here through sheer force of will. But, either way, I need a break, and they need something in their body that isn’t grief and water from a little paper cup.
I slip out of the room, and the hallway hits me like stepping into another dimension. Out here, life continues. Nurses walk down the corridor with purpose. Someone’s laughing at the nurses’ station. A TV murmurs from another room. It feels obscene, all this normalcy existing just feet from our little bubble of crisis.
The vending machines hum with fluorescent aggression at the end of the hall, so I walk over and feed it one of the last dollars in my wallet. The cup that drops down is thin enough to burn my fingers through the paper, and the liquid that fills it looks like motor oil and smells worse.
But it’s hot, and it’s caffeine, and it’s something I can do.
Something I can control.
After getting another coffee, I move to the snack machine, which eats the rest of my cash. Three times, the metal coil drops a bag of pretzels, and they hit the bottom of the machine witha sad little thump that somehow perfectly captures my entire emotional state.
Two coffees.
Three bags of pretzels.
Zero dollars.
A sister who might be dying.
Parents who are already ghosts.
Maya who?—
No. Not going there. Can’t go there.
