Page 130 of The Misfit

“Real dinner,” Lee clarifies, his voice carrying a hint of nervousness I’ve never heard before. “At that little Italian place on Oak Street. The one with private booths and sealed silverware. Where we can take our time and talk and …” He watches me with those storm-gray eyes. “And maybe start over. Do things right this time.”

The reality of this, of him, us. Of this very moment. It presses down on me.

“You came back,” I whisper. “After I told you to get help, to fix yourself, to …” I swallow hard. “After I walked away, you still came back.” What’s more, there’s a vulnerability to him now that I never saw before. It’s as if his mask is completely gone. And he’s no longer hiding, just like I asked of him.

“I’ll always come back to you, Pantry Girl.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “But I knew when I did that I wanted to be better. Stronger. Ready to be whatever we could be, without bourbon or pretense or careful performances.”

The morning sun streams through the windows, catching on my bare hands, on his clear eyes, on everything real and possible between us.

“Yes,” I say, realizing I didn’t answer his question about dinner.

“Yes?”

“To dinner.” I feel myself smiling, really smiling, no careful composition needed. “To starting over. To …” I gesture back and forth between us, encompassing everything we could be. “To trying again … well, trying for real.”

His answering smile could outshine the sun. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I reach across the table, my bare hand finding his. The contact sends electricity through my veins, but not panic. Not fear. Just … connection. “But Lee?”

“Hmm?” He stares at our joined hands like they’re something miraculous.

“I don’t want to start completely over.” My fingers lace with his. “I want to remember how far we’ve come. How much we’ve grown. How real everything still is between us.” His thumb traces patterns on my palm, and for once, I don’t need to count them to feel safe.

“I love you.” Lee’s words come out steady, certain, clear as the morning light streaming through the windows. “Not because you taught me patterns could be beautiful. Not because you saw through every mask I wore. Not even because you were brave enough to walk away when I needed to heal.” My heart stutters in my chest, but I don’t pull my hand away. Don’t retreat behind careful walls. Don’t need to count breaths to stay present at this moment. “I love you because you’re you. Because you count tiles when anxious but can sit here now with bare hands touching mine. Because you wear silk gloves to fancy parties but learned to exist without them when you’re ready. Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, even when you think you aren’t.”

Tears blur my vision, but they’re different from the ones I used to shed when everything ended three months ago.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, “not because you got sober or found a job or proved anything to anyone. But because you’re you. You’re finding out who you want to be.”

His hand tightens on mine, and I see tears in his eyes, too. Storm-gray swimming with emotion that needs no measuring, no counting, no careful control.

“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” His voice is rough with feeling. “The OCD girl who learned to live without gloves and the alcoholic heir who learned to live without bourbon. Both of us were so afraid of not fitting into our own worlds that we almost missed being real.”

“But we didn’t miss it,” I say, understanding blooming like a slow and steady dawn. “We just … needed time. Needed growth. We needed to learn how to love ourselves before we could love each other properly.”

“Yeah.” He lifts our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my bare knuckles. The contact sends shivers down my spine, but not from fear. Never from fear, not with him. Not anymore. “So what do you say, Salem? Ready to be real with me? No arrangements, no pretense, no careful performances. Just us, with all our patterns and chaos and perfectly imperfect pieces?”

I look at our hands, at his clear eyes, at everything possible stretching before us like an uncounted future.

“Yes,” I say simply, meaning it more than anything I’ve ever said. “Just us. Real us. Whatever that means.”

epilogue

Three Months Later

-Salem

The setting suncasts long shadows across The Mill’s front lawn as I park my car, wondering what Lee has planned. Three months of real dating, of sober kisses, of learning each other’s patterns in new ways, and he still finds a way to surprise me. Still makes my heart race with simple texts like:Meet me at The Mill. 7 p.m. Trust me.

I spot the note immediately, weighed down by a silk blindfold on the front steps. The paper is a crumpled sticky note, but the handwriting is unmistakably Lee’s.

Put it on. Come inside. Let me lead you somewhere special.

P.S. Everything’s clean. Counted three times. Just for you.

P.P.S. I love you.

My fingers trace the silk blindfold—burgundy, like my old gloves, like the dress from that night on the cliffs, like everything significant in our story. The soft material is expensive and carefully chosen like everything Lee does for me now.

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