Page 13 of The Misfit

The paperweight slips from my suddenly numb fingers. I catch it before it hits the floor, but just barely. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s time, Son.” Father’s voice has that practiced patience that makes me want to scream. “You’re twenty-four. This is important, for you, our family. You need to prove you’re capable of making responsible choices. That you’re stable.”

My laugh comes out sharp and decidedly not stable. “Responsible choices? Is that what we’re calling it now? Not ‘fixing the family disappointment’?”

“Lee Sterling.” Mother’s voice cracks like a whip. When did she move to stand behind my chair? “This isn’t about fixing anything. This is about your future.”

“My future?” The words taste bitter. “Or the future of Sterling Banking and Trust? Wouldn’t want anyone thinking the heir might be”—I wave my hand vaguely—“different.”

Grandfather stands, commanding attention like he always has. “You will find someone suitable. Someone who can help guide you toward your responsibilities. And you will present them at the gala.”

“And if I don’t?” The paperweight is warm in my palm now. I resist the urge to throw it.

“Then perhaps it’s time to consider other arrangements for the family legacy.” Father won’t meet my eyes. “Your trust fund, your position at the bank, your housing—all of it comes with certain expectations.”

The threat lands like a physical blow. My mind races through possibilities. No money means no safety net, no escape route. The walls feel closer suddenly, thetick-tick-tickof the clock drowning out everything else.

“You have three months,” Grandfather says like he’s doing me a favor. “Find someone appropriate or face the consequences.”

I stand so fast my chair tips backward. Mother catches it with practiced ease. It’s not the first time I’ve knocked something over in this room.

“Someone appropriate,” I echo, voice hollow. “And I suppose you already have candidates in mind? Some nice debutante who can pray away my demons and pop out perfectSterlingbabies?”

No one denies it.

The worst part is, under the anger and panic, a small voice makes me wonder if they’re right. Maybe if I just tried harder, wanted different things, was different …

Fuck that voice.

The paperweight hits Father’s desk with a thunk that makes Mother jump. “Three months to find my very own conversion therapy spouse. How generous of you all.”

I’m out the door before they can respond, their voices blending with thetick-tick-tickof that fucking clock until I can’t hear anything else.

Three months to find someone who can convince the Sterling family I’m worth keeping.

Three months to save myself or lose everything.

Shit. I make it to my vehicle as my anger rides sharp through me.

My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel of my Jeep Wrangler, still parked in front of Sterling House. The urge to peel out, to further fuck up their preciously leveled gravel, burns through me. But I don’t move.

Can’t move.

My mind races in twelve different directions—trust fund digits flashing behind my eyes, the weight of generations of Sterling men pressing down on my chest, the memory of Promised Land’s scratchy sheets against my skin. I bounce my leg, trying to ground myself in the present, but everything feels too loud, too bright, too much.

Three months.

Find someone appropriate.

Someone suitable.

Someone who can fix me.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat, edging toward hysterical. The garden club ladies are leaving now, their perfectly coiffed heads bobbing past my open Jeep like vultures. Probably already composing texts about Lee Sterling’s latest drama. The black sheep. The family disappointment. The one who can’t just be normal.

My phone buzzes.Drew.

Another buzz.Bel.

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