Page 96 of The Misfit

“Kinda.” She shrugs, then continues, “She said I was ruining you.” Her voice is a whisper, and though she’s holding my hand, she doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “Told me that you were picking up my habits. Counting things. Checking things. Becoming like me.” Her vulnerability shakes me to the core.

“And?”

At my response she finally looks at me, and I swear the air in my lungs becomes easier to breathe. “What do you mean ‘and’? She’s right.” Her brown eyes remind me of chocolate and coffee. “I’m ruining you. You count things and clean things three times. Measure spaces between people. All because of me. I’m infecting you with my disease.”

“No.” I stand, keeping our hands linked, needing the connection. “You can’t infect me with something that was already there. There is nothing wrong with you, Salem. I’m coming to the conclusion there isn’t anything wrong with me, either. You’re teaching me so much.”

“Teaching? I think you mean destroying. At least from your mother’s perspective.”

“Fuck her perspective. I’ve found someone who can make sense of the chaos in my head. There is no one else like you. No one else who understands that I need patterns to feel safe, to feel normal.”

“Lee—”

“I refuse to hear anything else. You didn’t take her money.” The realization of that hits me harder the second time than the first. “Look at me, Salem,” I demand, and she slowly looks up, her lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. I lick my lips as I speak, the desire to kiss her nearly ruling me. “There is no one else like you. No one, who when offered a million dollars to walk away from me, wouldn’t have taken that money and disappeared.”

A flush creeps up her neck. “I can’t be bought by anyone.”

I step closer, watching her breath hitch. “I realize that. But most people would run with that kind of money. Most people would take the easy way out.”

“I’m not most people.” Her voice strengthens, her gaze becoming bolder. “And this…us… it’s not something anyone can put a price tag on.”

The simple honesty of that statement steals my breath. This beautiful, broken, perfect girl chose me over money. Over security. Over an escape from all the Sterling family drama.

“You really stayed.” I reach up with my free hand, hovering near her face without touching. “Even knowing how fucked up my family is. How fucked up I am.”

“Your kind of fucked up matches my kind of fucked up.” Her lips quirk slightly. “Besides, who else is going to count ceiling tiles with me at three a.m.?”

Something burns behind my eyes. “Salem …”

“I didn’t take her money,” she continues softer, “because there’s nothing she could offer that’s worth losing this. Losing you. Losing us.”

The walls I’ve built up around my heart—walls made of rebellion and anger and cultivated chaos—crack under the weight of her confession.

“Even though you think I’m turning into you?” I try to make it a joke, but the tone is deeper. “Counting and cleaning and measuring everything?”

“You’re not turning into me.” She squeezes my hand. “You’re blazing a path of your own. To the real you. The one who understands that sometimes patterns aren’t prison cells. Sometimes they’re lifelines.” She says it, but I still see a whisper of doubt in her eyes.

I stare at this girl who sees through every mask, every pretense, every facade.

This girl who chose me over money.

This girl who makes everything make sense.

And suddenly, I need her to see herself the way I see her.

Need her to understand exactly what she means to me.

Need her to know that no amount of money could ever compare to the way she makes the noise in my head quiet down.

My eyes drift to my computer setup, and an idea forms.

“Come here,” I say, “I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“Trust me?” I adjust one of my monitors, angling it slightly. “I want to show you something.”

Her hesitation is brief—progress from the girl who used to count breaths before moving closer to anyone. She approaches as I tap a few keys, activating my webcam.

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