Page 126 of The Misfit

“But … I’m so sorry, Lee. That is awful.” Her voice holds no judgment, only understanding. Understanding but guarded.

“Obviously, it worked about as well as trying to drink away who I am.” I gesture vaguely at myself, still in my rumpled tux, still slightly buzzed, still broken in all the ways that matter. “Which is to say, not very well. But I can’t keep going like this. I can’t keep drowning myself in liquor, hoping the memories fade. Hoping I wake up a different person. I need to fix myself, fix the pieces that I broke trying to be someone I wasn’t.”

The side of Salem’s mouth lifts in the ghost of a smile. “Tell me about Promised Land.”

“They made us write letters,” I say, the words spilling out after years of silence. “To our future selves. To the better versions we’d become after they fixed us. I wrote about the wife I’d have, the perfect Sterling heir I’d be, and how proud I’d make my mother.”

Salem listens quietly, her presence steadying even without touch. The same way she steadies me when we count tiles together.

“But at night,” I continue, voice rougher, “I’d write different letters. Real ones. About how scared I was of losing myself and how much I hated pretending. All I wanted was to be someone they could love. Someone who was accepted.” I laugh, but it comes out broken. “Then one day, they found those letters. Used them in group therapy as examples of myconfusion.Made me burn them while reciting scripture.”

“I know it doesn’t mean shit, and it won’t change anything, but I want you to know that I’m sorry.” Her apology isn’t what I need, but it helps to slow the bleeding.

“You know what’s funny?” I stare at the stars, unable to look at her compassion. “Even after everything, after I learned to play their game and be what they wanted … I still wasn’t fixed. I still count things. Still seek out patterns. Still try to control chaos in my head. Just like you.”

“But you drink to quiet it,” she says softly. “To drown the patterns instead of using them.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Only because patterns remind me of Promised Land. Of trying to fit myself into someone else’s box.”

“Until you met me.” It’s not a question.

“Until I met you,” I agree. “Then I realized patterns weren’t about fixing anything. They were about making sense of chaos. About finding beauty in broken pieces. About …” I’m afraid of saying too much.

“About what?”

“About feeling safe,” I whisper. “Not suitable. Not fixed. Just … safe. In my own skin. In my own head. In your carefully measured world that somehow made room for all of my messes.”

“I used to hate my patterns,” Salem says after a moment. “Used to think they were the punishment given to me because I failed to save Chelsea. Especially because they went from occasionally counting certain things to the gloves and counting everything. When we first met, my only hope was that I could find a way back to being normal.”

“What changed?”

Her smile is small but real. “I met someone who showed me that being normal is bullshit. That some patterns are worth keeping. That sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones that don’t align perfectly.”

There’s hope and truth in her voice, and I lean into it.

“It was never pretend,” I say into the quiet night, the confession burning worse than any bourbon. “Not for me. Not from the moment you started counting ceiling tiles in that pantry. Not even when I was trying to convince myself it was just an arrangement.”

Salem goes very still beside me, her bare hands pressing harder against the stone. “Lee?—”

“No. I need to tell you this because it’s important. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance again, and I want you to know.”

“Okay …”

“I love you.” The words rush out, terrifying and true. “Not because you quiet the noise in my head. Not because you understand patterns and chaos. Not because you’ve never tried to fix me but because you make me want to fix myself. You make me want to be better, do better.”

The stars move above us, constant and chaotic like everything I feel for her. Like everything I’ve been too scared to admit without liquid courage numbing the fear.

“I love how you count things,” I continue, unable to stop now that I’ve started. “Love how you measure spaces. Love how you make the world make sense just by existing in it. Love how you’ve never asked me to be suitable. Only real.”

“Stop.” Her voice cracks. “Please. You can’t?—”

“I can. I am. I love you, Salem. Even if I don’t deserve you. Even if I’ve fucked everything up. Even if?—”

Her bare hand finds mine in the darkness. It’s skin against skin, no silk or latex barriers between us. The contact steals my breath, stops my words, and makes everything else fall to the wayside. Holy shit. She’s touching me. Without gloves. Without counting. Without measuring the space between us.

“I’m so sorry for the manipulation, the lies …”

Her voice is barely a whisper, but it carries the weight of everything and cuts the words off in my throat. “None of it matters. Well, yes, it still hurts. But that’s not the point. My loving you is why I had to walk away tonight. That’s why I can’t watch you destroy yourself. That’s why I?—”

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