Page 99 of The Misfit

Relax. Count. Breathe. I try to catch Lee’s eye, seeking our usual shared rhythm, but he’s engaged in what looks like an intense whispered conversation with his mother. His jaw clenches in that way that means he’s fighting the urge to reach for a drink.

“Arms soft,” the photographer instructs, touching my elbow without warning. I flinch, and Katherine’s slight smile tells me she noticed. “Head tilted … yes, like that. Now smile like you belong here.”

Like I belong here. In this room where nothing aligns. In this family where everything is performance. In this world where Lee is already pulling away, his fingers drumming against his thigh in a pattern that has nothing to do with my counting and everything to do with measuring minutes until his next drink.

“Lee,” Katherine interrupts whatever he was saying. “Do join Salem. Let’s show everyone what a suitable match looks like.”

The wordsuitablehits like a slap. Lee stiffens, then moves toward me with careful steps that tell me he’s already had at least one drink. When did that happen? How did I miss it? Fuck, I zoned out while the photographer kept adjusting.

He takes his place beside me, and for a moment, I think we’ll find our rhythm. But his hand on my waist is too tight, his smile too forced, his energy too chaotic to match my measured breaths.

“Lovely,” the photographer coos. “Now, let’s get the whole family in. Mrs. Sterling, if you’ll stand just here.”

Katherine glides into position, everything about her a study in controlled elegance. Even her weird jacket somehow looks intentional now, like she’s daring anyone to question her choices.

I start counting the camera clicks, trying to ground myself as more people join the frame. More hands adjusting positions. More voices giving directions. More chaos in what should be an ordered tableau.

And through it all, Lee’s fingers drum against my waist, measuring time until escape.

“Just a slight adjustment.” The photographer’s hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my waist, my arms. Each touch sends sparks of panic through my silk barriers. “Mrs. Sterling, perhaps behind the happy couple? And Lee, please stop fidgeting.”

Lee’s response is to shift again, his usual protective stance wavering. I feel him pulling away, creating space that shouldn’t exist between us. The careful bubble we’ve built over months starts to fracture.

“Salem, dear,” Katherine materializes on my other side. “Your gloves are creasing oddly. Perhaps if you relaxed your hands? We wouldn’t want the photos to show any … tension.”

The suggestion carries weight beyond fabric concerns. I force my fingers to uncurl, counting the movements. One finger at a time. Two seconds between each. Three attempts to look natural.

“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims again, though Lee’s now standing too far left, throwing off our careful symmetry. “Now, young Mr. Sterling, if you could just?—”

“I need a minute.” Lee’s voice carries that edge that usually precedes him reaching for a drink. “Just … give me a fucking minute.”

“Language,” Katherine scolds, but her smile suggests she expected this. Wanted this. “Perhaps a short break? The lighting needs adjusting, anyway.”

Lee’s gone before she finishes speaking, making a beeline for the drink cart in the corner. I watch him pour a bourbon with practiced ease, his hands steady with this routine in a way they weren’t with me.

“He gets like this during family events sometimes,” Katherine says softly, for my ears only. “Ever since … well. Some memories are better left in the past, wouldn’t you agree? Of course, we had to include you in the photos going up on the Sterling Banking social media. For Emma’s engagement announcements. You’re clearly committed to one another.” I can’t quite grasp the meaning in her words, but before I can analyze it, the photographer’s hands are on me again, shifting me into a new position.

“We’ll get some of just the ladies while we wait,” he announces. “Salem, try to look more comfortable. Like you do this every day.”

But I don’t do this every day. Don’t handle strange hands arranging my body. Don’t watch Lee drink before noon. Don’t stand in rooms where nothing aligns while pretending everything’s fine.

Across the room, Lee downs his second glass, and I realize I’m not the only one counting anymore. Not the only one measuring spaces and moments and breaths.

But while I count to stay present, he counts to escape.

While I measure spaces to feel safe, he measures drinks to feel numb.

“Such progress you’ve made,” Katherine murmurs as the photographer adjusts his lights. “Almost passing for normal these days. Lee must be such a steadying influence. Of course with the party coming up, well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. But do let me know if we need to get Charlotte to fill in as Lee’s plus-one. She wouldn’t mind. I know how you feel about crowds.”

The irony of her words hits as I watch Lee pour his third drink. Or is it his fourth? I’ve lost count, and that terrifies me more than the photographer’s hands or Katherine’s sharp smile.

“Charlotte’s joining us for lunch after,” Katherine continues, smoothing her skirt. “She’s so looking forward to catching up with Lee. They were quite close before his … rebellious phase.”

Close. The word carries implications that make my silk gloves feel too tight. Through the lens of the camera, I watch Charlotte herself appear in the doorway, all perfect poise and societal grace. No gloves. No counting. No measured spaces between herself and others.

“Lee, darling!” Charlotte’s voice carries across the room like expensive perfume. “You’re not drinking alone, are you?”

He turns, glass in hand, and something shifts in his posture. Something I’ve never seen before—a kind of practiced performance that speaks of years of societal training.

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