Page 63 of The Misfit

He reaches across the table and gently unfolds my clenched fingers.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, and for a moment, I want to tell him everything.

About Chelsea. About that night. About why I count things and wear gloves and the real reason I can’t stop being afraid.

Except when I open my mouth, the words don’t come out. They stick in my throat, trapped behind two years of silence, therapy, and walls that I built to protect myself.

Tears burn at the corners of my eyes.

No, I will not cry. I will not give him that satisfaction.Tipping my head back, I stare at the ceiling and count the tiles, waiting for the feeling to subside. And Lee, wonderful, patient Lee, counts with me.

It’s brief moments like this that make me question if this could really be real? But then the bubble bursts when reality reminds me of how messed up I already am and how one perfect moment together doesn’t mean we magicallyfittogether.

Lee doesn’t ask questions when I stumble to my feet. Instead, he smoothly rises with me. His body remains perfectly angled between Marcus and me, a shield I didn’t ask for but one I desperately need. My quick, jerky movements make the books scatter across the table, perfect order dissolving like my sanity.

“I need …” The words catch in my throat. What do I need?

Space? Air? Time to rewind two years so I can save Chelsea?

“Outside,” Lee suggests, already gathering my things with careful precision. He remembers the order—textbooks largest to smallest, notebooks by subject, pencils aligned by length. When did he learn these things about me?

Marcus’s laughter follows us toward the door. “Can’t run away from all your problems.”

I’ve barely made it outside and out of view when my legs give out beneath me. I’m not sure how, but Lee catches me before I hit the ground; his arms circle my waist, and he pulls me into his chest. His strength and warmth encompass me, and his rich, masculine scent cradles me. He walks us to a nearby bench, holding me tight to his chest.

It still surprises me that his touch doesn’t set me off or send me into further panic. Skin contact always makes me nuclear—but not Lee’s. Whenever he touches me, I come apart, excitement replacing the usual fear because I know deep down Lee cares.

“Chelsea was my friend,” I whisper into his chest. The words taste like copper and fear. “She was … we were …”

“You don’t have to tell me.” His deep timbre vibrates across my skin.

He says I don’t have to tell him, but I do. Maybe that’s what I need. To speak the truth so that the memories will stop haunting me. Stop eating me alive from the inside out.

“Marcus wasn’t there, either.” My voice sounds strange, distant. “That night. At the party. Chelsea wanted me to go with her, but I couldn’t. She told me I needed to stop being so afraid, stop letting my anxiety control me.” A sob catches in my throat. “I didn’t go with her, and I regret it every minute of every day now.”

The pressure on my chest becomes lighter the more I speak.

“Chelsea trusted me … trusted us.”

Lee doesn’t push when I trail off. He doesn’t demand the full story. Just holds me while I shake apart, his body between me and the rest of the world.

“I can’t,” I finally whisper. “I can’t tell you everything. Not yet.”

“Okay.” He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, his touch careful. “Whenever you’re ready. Or never. It’s your story to tell.”

The simple acceptance in his voice breaks something in my chest. This isn’t how fake boyfriends act. This isn’t what we agreed to. This is too real, too raw, too much.

“Lee …”

“Shh.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Just breathe. Count with me.”

And even though I can’t tell him the rest—how her loss sent me into a spiral, how Marcus blamed me for her death, and how I spent six months in a psychiatric facility counting ceiling tiles—I let him hold me.

Let him pretend this is just part of our arrangement.

Let myself pretend I’m not falling in love with him.

“Forty-three tiles on the ceiling inside,” he says softly, giving me something concrete to focus on. “Plus twelve light fixtures. Twenty-seven steps to the bathroom. Nine sugar packets in the caddy at our table.”

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