Page 80 of The Beautiful Collision
Back in the room, nothing has changed. I hand a coffee and a bag of pretzels to Dad, who takes them with hands that shake just slightly. It looks wrong—my father has a workman’s hands—and seeing them tremble makes something crack in my chest.
My mom doesn’t even notice I’m back, and I have to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. I put her coffee on a side table and press the pretzel bag into Mom’s hands, and she looks down at them with genuine confusion, like she’s forgotten what food is, what eating means, and what any of this is for.
I know then that it’s time for The Maine Show.
Time to be what they need.
“Those pretzels are stale, but at least they’re not salty,” I say, forcing my mouth into what I hope passes for a grin. “Because that would be addinginsaltto injury.”
Jesus Christ. That might be the worst joke I’ve ever told, and considering my track record, that’s saying something. But Mom’s mouth—that tight line that’s been carved into her face for hours—quirks up at the corner. It’s a ghost of a smile, exhausted but real.
“Oh, Maine,” she whispers, clutching the pretzel bag like I’ve handed her something precious.
And that’s it. That’s my win. For ten seconds, maybe fifteen, she’s thinking about my terrible joke instead of the fact that her daughter can’t breathe on her own. This is what I do. Thisis who I am in this family. The jester. The distraction. The one who never needs anything because everyone else needs so much more.
A nurse comes in, her white sneakers squeaking against the linoleum in a rhythm that sounds almost cheerful. She’s young, maybe in her mid-twenties, with kind eyes and the particular flavor of tired that comes from working twelve-hour shifts in a place where people come to either get better or die.
She smiles at us—exhausted but genuine—and moves to check Chloe’s IV with efficient, gentle movements.
“Her sats dipped to eighty-eight on the last draw,” she says, adjusting something on one of the machines. “We need to keep a close eye on her oxygen flow and the ABG results. The doctor wants to avoid putting her on the ventilator if possible, but if her CO2 keeps climbing…”
The words hit me like a foreign language. I catch fragments—oxygen, ventilator, words that sound important and terrifying—but I can’t piece them together into meaning. It’s like trying to read through frosted glass or listen to a conversation underwater.
Mom leans forward, desperate, grasping for understanding. “Is she… what does that mean? Is she getting worse?”
The nurse’s smile turns sympathetic. “We’re monitoring her closely, and the doctor will be by soon to discuss the treatment plan.”
It’s a non-answer, the medical equivalent of “we’ll see,” and the frustration that spikes through me is physical, like electricity under my skin. I need someone who can translate this. Someone who speaks both languages—medical and human.
I need Maya.
The thought hits like a sucker punch.
Not want.
Need.
I need her medical knowledge and her ability to parse these numbers and acronyms into something that makes sense. She’d walk into this room and immediately understand what was being said, and then tell me if my sister is dying or just having a bad day.
But as that practical need crests and breaks, it transforms into something else.
Something deeper and infinitely more dangerous.
I don’t just need the nurse. I needher.
I need Maya’s hand in mine, steadying me when everything feels like it’s falling apart. I need that way she has of looking at me—really looking, seeing past all my bullshit to the terrified guy underneath—and somehow making it OK to be that guy.
Even as the nurse leaves the room and we resume the wait, the craving is so intense it makes my hands shake as I pull out my phone, angling the screen away from my parents. The bright light feels wrong in the dim room, too harsh, too modern for this timeless vigil we’re keeping.
Our text thread opens, and our last exchange might as well be from another lifetime. Back when I was just a coward instead of a coward whose sister might be dying. Back when pushing her away felt like I was protecting her by denying myself. It still is, probably, but I guess maybe I’m feeling more selfish now.
My thumb moves across the keyboard, clumsy and slow, as I write the message:
I need you.
Three words. Eight letters. The truest thing I’ve ever almost said to her.
They sit there on my screen, the cursor blinking after them like a heartbeat. One tap and she’d know. One tap and maybe she’d come. Maybe she’d forgive the silence and the walls and the distance I’ve forced between us. Maybe she’d walk through that door and make everything make sense again.
