Chapter 11
eleven
MAYA
I’m trying to be absorbed by the diagnostic criteria for cardiogenic shock, but my eyes keep drifting to the living room, where Maine is quietly dismantling every preconception I’ve ever had about him.
He’s been sitting with Chloe for the past hour, not his usual self—performing, charming—just being . But he hasn’t even been his private self, either, the guy I’ve seen stressed about money or a bad hockey practice, even though he won’t admit it to me. This is a third force… a third Maine…
The guy who makes himself solid and smooth for his family.
No edges, no weakness.
Reliable.
Whether it’s true or not.
I can see it in every minute of his interaction with Chloe.
When she shifts uncomfortably, he adjusts her pillows before she can ask.
When the nebulizer starts to sputter, he checks the medication level.
When she tries to make a joke that dissolves into wheezing, he waits patiently for her to catch her breath, his hand steady on her shoulder.
Fuck, he even times her breathing by pretending to tap his leg, and the nurse in me sees it clear as day.
Twenty breaths a minute is borderline for her condition, and he clearly knows it, but she’s staying above the line for now.
Every few minutes, his leg starts tapping again, and he counts all over again, making sure she’s okay.
This is not the guy who leaves toothpaste tubes by the sink like territorial markers or who can turn any conversation into a double entendre or who, if I’m being honest, was flirting with me before his parents showed up.
This is not the life of the party, the biggest swinging dick in any crowd, the alpha among alphas on the Pine Barren Devils hockey team.
This is someone else entirely. Someone real, someone who knows exactly how many breaths per minute mean his sister is struggling, someone who owns a medical-grade nebulizer that he hides under his bed like contraband.
And the ache in my chest is getting harder to ignore.
It’s not attraction—well, not just attraction—it’s something more dangerous.
It’s recognition.
I know what it’s like to perform a role so long you forget there’s a person underneath.
But while I chose my rebellion, crafted my party-girl armor like designer chainmail, Maine didn’t get a choice.
His role was assigned at birth: the easy kid, the one who doesn’t need anything, the comic relief in his family’s medical drama.
And it’s a mantle he takes on out of love and respect.
Different from mine, because my parents decided my role for me.
Never good enough.
Never making the right choices.
But, still, seeing his interactions with Chloe has shaken something loose in me.
My phone buzzes against the table, interrupting my thoughts, and I glance down to see my study group chat exploding with messages about tomorrow’s exam.
But the notification I’m really looking for—the one I’ve been waiting for since I sent that pathetic olive branch to my siblings twenty minutes ago—isn’t there.
Thinking of you guys.
Three words. That’s all I managed. Three words that took me twenty minutes to type, delete, retype, stare at, almost delete again, and finally send in a moment of stupid, vulnerable hope. The read receipts appeared almost immediately. Both my brother and sister saw it. And then… nothing.
The silence is louder than any response could have been.
They don’t care about me or my life, and they agree with our parents. I’m the disappointment. The one who threw away her Chestnut Hill pedigree to “play nurse” and live “common.” And the mocking blue checkmarks showing they’ve seen the message but chosen not to respond is confirmation enough.
“Everything okay?” Maine’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s looking at me from the couch with genuine concern.
This is real, and it’s directed at me, and I have no idea what to do with it. “Fine,” I say automatically, putting my phone face-down. “Just checking the time.”
He doesn’t call me on the obvious lie, just nods and turns back to Chloe, who’s dozed off against his shoulder. The ugly quilt is tucked around her with the same care I use to prep sterile fields in the skills lab—every corner precise, every fold intentional.
I look down at my textbook so he doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes—at the sight of him and Chloe, or the silence from my siblings, I’m not sure—but the words blur together.
All I can think about is the way he didn’t push, didn’t pry.
In my world—my family’s world—weakness is something to be scorned.
But Maine just… let it go. Like my privacy mattered. Like I was allowed to have feelings I would rather not dissect for public consumption.
There’s a knock on the door—the same one as earlier—and suddenly the apartment transforms. Maine’s spine straightens, his expression rearranging itself into something looser, easier. By the time his parents walk through the door, the Maine Show is back for a new season.
“There they are!” He grins, but I can see the effort it costs him, the way his jaw tightens just before the smile spreads.
His mother barely glances at him, her attention laser-focused on Chloe. “How was she? Any coughing fits? Did she take her four o’clock dose?”
“She’s fine, Mom. Haven’t lost a patient yet.” The joke lands flat, his mother already reaching for Chloe, checking her color, her breathing, her temperature.
His father hovers by the door, keys jangling in that universal signal of we need to leave now . “Thanks for this, buddy. We really needed the break.”
“No problem.” Maine’s voice is steady, but his hands clench briefly at his sides before relaxing. “Anytime.”
They’re already bundling Chloe up, and neither of them asks Maine how his day was, or his week, or his year.
Neither of them notices the exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes or the way he’s lost weight, his jeans hanging lower on his hips than they did when I first moved in. They don’t even ask about me.
Do they know his last roommate left?
He’s invisible to them. Not ignored, exactly, because that would require them to see him first. He’s just… not there. A functional part of the family machinery that’s working as expected, so why examine it too closely when there are other things that need their attention?
After an awkward hug goodbye, Maine cracks a gag and tells them to drive safe, still playing the part. Then they’re gone, and the door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
And then Maine just… crumbles.
His knees hit the floor first, then his back slides down the door until he’s sitting on our cheap linoleum, head in his hands. The transformation is so complete, so devastating, that I actually gasp.
My body moves before my brain catches up, and suddenly I’m sliding down the wall to sit near him, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to respect the raw vulnerability radiating from every line of his body.
This is it , a voice in my head whispers. He’s vulnerable. One touch, one soft word, and you could start reeling him in. The bet would be as good as won.
The thought makes me physically ill. I shove it down with the rest of my family’s toxic lessons about exploitation and advantage.
This moment isn’t about any stupid bet. This is about a human being who just spent two hours caring for his sick sister while his parents treated him like free medical equipment.
But what do I even say?
It’s clear we’re both so fucked up, so trained to deflect and perform, that genuine connection feels like speaking a foreign language neither of us quite remembers learning.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we can’t say. I can hear him breathing—rough, uneven, like he’s put all his energy into Chloe and now he’s fighting not to completely fall apart. My chest feels tight, my eyes burning with tears I refuse to let fall.
I need to fix this. Not because I want to win some stupid bet, but because Maine—the guy I watched care for someone so completely for the last two hours—deserves better than sitting on the floor, forgotten and exhausted and so utterly alone despite being surrounded by people who claim to love him.
But I don’t know how to fix real things. I only know how to throw parties and make people forget their problems for a few hours. I know how to mix drinks and curate playlists and create spaces where everyone’s too drunk and happy to remember what hurts.
It works for me, and it’s my gift to others.
It’s not enough, but it’s all I have.
“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 essentially have 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 was simultaneously 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.