Page 127 of The Misfit

“I know.” I lace our fingers together, feeling her pulse race against mine. “I understand. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to save themselves, and sometimes that means you have to choose yourself.”

Her thumb traces against my palm, each touch sending a jolt of electricity through my veins. This means more than any kiss, any heated moment, any physical connection we’ve ever shared. This is her, bare and real and trusting me with her uncounted touch.

“I love you, Lee, but I can’t be with you,” she says, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. “Not until you’re ready to save yourself. Not until you want to be better for you. Not for me or your family, but you. Better for you.”

“I know that, too.” I squeeze her hand gently. “I’m starting to understand a lot of things. Finally.”

Her smile is sad but real. Like hope. Like a promise. Like everything we could be if I get my shit together.

“Good.” She starts to pull away, and I let her. Because that’s love, too—knowing when to hold on and when to let go. “Then maybe someday …”

“Yeah.” I watch her stand, memorizing how starlight catches in her hair. “Someday.”

“Get help, Lee.” She stands silhouetted against the starlight, more beautiful than anything suitable could ever be. “Real help. Not Promised Land. Not bourbon. Stop pretending to be something you’re not.”

“I will.” The promise feels different this time. Real. Like something I’m doing for myself, not for her or family or societal expectations. “I know of a good therapist, actually. Someone who helped a friend learn to live with patterns instead of fighting them.”

Her laugh is soft, surprised. “Using my therapist? That’s almost poetic.”

“I’m full of surprises.” I stay seated, letting her have this moment of being stronger, of walking away on her terms. “Mostly bad ones lately, but I’m working on that.”

She takes a step back, then stops. “Lee?”

“Yeah?”

“When you’re ready—really ready, not just trying to win me back—I’d love to meet the real you.”

It’s the whisper of a future together, hope that maybe soon when I’ve figured myself out that I can be someone worthy of her careful patterns.

“You and me both.” I watch her start down the path, memorizing how she moves through darkness without fear now. “And Pantry Girl …?”

She pauses, not turning around. “Yes?”

“Thank you. For showing me that some patterns are worth keeping. That some chaos is worth fixing. That some love is worth earning.”

She doesn’t respond, but her steps are lighter as she disappears into the night. She’s not running this time. Not hiding. Just giving me space to become someone who deserves her bare-handed trust.

I stay on the cliff’s edge, feeling the ghost of her touch on my palm.

It’s strange how for the first time in years, the chaos in my head appears a little more manageable. The need for bourbon softens around the edges. The voice of Promised Land is a little quieter.

Because she loves me.

Because she believes I can be better.

Because she trusted me with her uncounted touch.

And maybe that’s enough to start with.

Maybe that’s everything.

Maybe that’s exactly what I need to finally save myself.

THIRTY-ONE

salem

THREE MONTHS LATER

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