Page 125 of The Misfit

Never will.

My chest fills with pride as I sit here, watching the starlight glimmer on the pale skin of her hands. I wish I could take a photo of her right now and keep it forever locked in my memory. She looks more real than anything in my fake world ever has.

I know I came here to end everything, but I think I found a reason to finally start living instead.

I sink down next to her, careful to maintain distance even though everything in me wants to reach for her. The night spreads out before us, quiet and still.

“I was going to tell you,” she says after a long silence. “About Chelsea. About why I count things. About all of it. But then everything got so complicated, and you started pulling away, and I …” She trails off, bare hands pressing harder against the stone.

“I started drinking more. Started proving I was exactly what everyone said I was—unloveable, unfixable, unworthy.” The truth comes easier here, on this cliff’s edge.

“I went to the hospital afterward,” she continues, her voice barely a whisper. “Not because of the guilt. I mean, that was part of it, but losing Chelsea triggered a fear bigger than anything I’ve ever encountered in my life. I couldn’t handle the idea that sometimes you do everything right, measure everything perfectly, and nothing turns out the way you thought it would. Sometimes you can do all the right things, and bad stuff can still happen.”

Her confession kills me, slices me straight down the middle because that’s what I’ve been doing, isn’t it? Proving her fears right. Showing her that no matter how carefully she counts, how precisely she measures, people will still choose to destroy themselves if they want.

“Six months,” she says. “That’s how long I spent learning how to exist again. Learning that I couldn’t save everyone. Learning that some things can’t be controlled, no matter how many times you count them.”

“Like me.” The words taste like bourbon and regret.

“Like you.” She finally looks at me, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just the kind of understanding that makes me feel smaller somehow. “Like Chelsea. Like everyone who has to want to save themselves before anyone else can help them.”

The seconds tick by, and I know without a doubt I have to get better. I have to choose myself if I’m ever going to be worthy of Salem’s love.

“I should have told you sooner,” she whispers.

“No.” I cut her off gently. “Don’t do that. Don’t make my choices your responsibility. You’ve carried enough guilt that wasn’t yours. You don’t owe me anything.”

She looks surprised, like she didn’t expect me to be capable of such insight. Hell, maybe I surprised myself.

“I left them,” I say into the quiet night. “My family. All of it. Told Mother I was done pretending to be the heir. Done letting them try to fix me.”

Salem’s hands are still against the stone. “Because of me?”

“No.” The answer comes fast, certain. “Because of me. Because I’m tired of drinking away who I really am. Tired of letting Pastor James’s voice in my head tell me I need fixing. Tired of trying to be someone I’m not.”

“Lee—”

“I mean it.” I turn to face her, needing her to understand. “Yes, watching you walk away tonight killed me, but it also woke me up. It made me realize I can’t keep drowning myself and expecting someone else to throw me a life jacket.”

The stars reflect in her eyes as she studies me, looking for truth or lies or something in between. I let her look, let her see all of me for once—no bourbon shield, no practiced charm, no carefully constructed walls.

“They’ll cut you off,” she says softly. “Take everything.”

“Let them.” I laugh, and it sounds like freedom. “They can take the trust fund, the family name, the societal connections. What they can’t take is who I am. Who I choose to be. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

“And who are you?” The question carries weight, meaning, everything we’ve never said.

“I don’t know yet.” The honesty burns worse than the bourbon ever did. “But I know I count ceiling tiles at three a.m. because patterns make sense when nothing else does. Someone who checks things three times because that’s your number, and somehow it became mine, too. Someone who’s so fucking tired of pretending to be anything other than exactly what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“Bisexual.” My voice is strong. “Chaotic. A mess of ADHD and anxiety and rebellion. Someone who was told he needed conversion therapy to be suitable for society but found more acceptance in your carefully ordered world than any country club ballroom.”

She’s quiet for a long moment as she processes.

“Promised Land,” she finally says. “That’s where they sent you? To pray away who you are?”

“To fix me.” The old bitterness rises, but it feels different now. Lighter somehow. “Six months of therapy and scripture and carefully structured isolation. Kind of like your hospital stay, except instead of learning to live with who I am, they tried to make me someone else entirely.”

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