Page 120 of The Misfit

“Lee.” Salem’s voice gentles even more. “Go home. Get sober. Figure out who you want to be. But don’t expect me to stay and watch you choose destruction over healing. I’ve seen enough people destroy themselves trying to be everything for other people. Be something for yourself. Choose you.”

The reference to Chelsea hits even through my drunk haze. Because she’s right. She’s always been right. About everything.

And I’m losing her anyway.

Because I’m exactly what Pastor James said I’d be.

Unlovable

Unworthy.

Unfixable.

Just like always.

“Lee Sterling.” Mother’s voice cuts through the awkward silence, sharp as broken crystal. “You’re making a scene. Control yourself.”

My father steps forward, only just now noticing something is off. “Lee.” His tone is a low threat, but I scoff.

Something snaps inside me—maybe it’s the bourbon, maybe it’s watching Salem walk away, or maybe it’s seeing Pastor James hovering at the edges of my breakdown like a vulture waiting to help “fix” me again.

“Control myself?” I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my ears. “Like you controlled me? Shipped me off to conversion therapy? Tried to pray away everything that made me different?”

“Lower your voice.” She steps closer, perfect smile cracking slightly. “This is your sister’s engagement party?—”

“Fuck the party.” The words explode out of me. “Fuck your perfect society events. Fuck your suitable matches. Fuck everything about this fake fucking world you’ve built.” I wave at my father. “And fuck you too, because we both know who runs this family, and it’s sure as hell not you or grandfather.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Charlotte retreats, finally getting the message. Pastor James starts forward, probably ready to offer more therapy, but I’m not done.

“You want to cut me off? Do it. Want to take my trust fund? Take it. Want to erase me from the family photos? Be my fucking guest.” My voice carries through the stunned silence. “I don’t want any part of this anymore. Don’t want your money or your connections or your fucking approval.”

“You’re drunk,” Mother hisses. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No, Mother. For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I’m saying.” I meet her eyes steadily, even as the room spins. “I’m done. Done pretending. Done trying to be suitable. Done lettingyoumake me hate myself for who I am.”

Her perfect composure finally cracks. “You will regret this, Son.”

“No.” I glance at Emma, seeing something like pride beneath her shock. “My only regret in life was letting you convince me that I needed to be fixed.”

I turn to leave, my legs unsteady but my determination solid. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, no one wanting to touch the Sterling heir’s very public meltdown.

“If you walk out that door,” Mother calls after me, “don’t bother coming back.”

I don’t turn around. Don’t acknowledge her threat. Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing how much everything hurts.

Instead, I walk away from it all—the family legacy, the societal expectations, the lies.

I’ve already lost the only real thing I ever had, anyway.

Might as well lose everything else, too.

TWENTY-NINE

salem

The dress Leechose fans out around me as I slide into the rideshare car. The burgundy silk is a stark contrast to the worn leather seats. Every instinct in my brain screams about germs, about strange cars, about drivers I don’t know. But Chelsea’s last text burns stronger than my anxiety.“Meet me at our spot. Please. I need you.”

I didn’t see it until morning.

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