Page 102 of The Misfit

“Are you okay? We were barely in the door for five minutes, and you let your mother get to you.” He scrubs his hands up and down his face and faces me. “I know. It’s like the second I’m around my family—well, my parents, not so much Emma—I lose the ability to think clearly. All I see is their faces. And every time I walk through the door, I’m taken back in time. I can’t get the image of the way my mother’s face looked when she dropped me off at that place.”

“Promised Land?” I prompt. “Is it a hospital?”

He pins me with a glare and leans in. “I’m not talking about it.” Then his mouth crashes against mine with no warning, no preamble, no gentleness. He cups the back of my neck and keeps me locked in place so I can’t move.

It reminds me of the night of the ballroom when things went a little too far, and I shove at his chest until he finally releases me with the taste of bourbon on my lips. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Connecting. Trying to find a way to get through the rest of this without the alcohol.”

“You think kissing me is the answer?” Then it hits me. The night at the ball, the first kiss we shared. He uses sex just as much as he uses alcohol to numb the chaos in his head.

Am I just another coping mechanism for him?

“Don’t,” he snaps, his tone sharp. “Don’t look at me like that, Salem. I don’t want your fucking pity.”

I caress his cheek, but he bats my hand away, turning his back to me. “If you don’t want to fuck, then fine, let’s return to the shit show downstairs.”

His words are a sharp slap, and I gasp. Maybe all I am to him is a coping mechanism. One stupid enough to be dragged along to his family gatherings like a walking bourbon bottle.

I tip my chin up and shake my head. “I was a fool to think we could do this. You have your secrets, yet you want mine. You won’t let me help you the same way you help me?”

He faces me again, his eyes cold, dark, dangerous. “I asked if you wanted to fuck. That’s how you can help me if I can’t drink.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. “I see. For the record, you didn’t ask.”

Somehow, I manage to walk out of the room and find my way back to the door in the labyrinth of a house.

Somehow, I manage to call for an Uber and wait without falling apart for it to arrive.

Somehow, I manage to leave.

When he doesn’t follow me, I know I was right. This was all a game to him. And I’m done being a pawn on someone else’s board.

TWENTY-FOUR

salem

Dr. Martinez’swaiting room hasn’t changed in the two years I’ve been coming here—same soothing blue walls, same arranged magazines, same familiar safety of routine. What’s changing is me, slowly, painfully.

As I sit now, waiting, my silk-covered hands twist in my lap, the gloves Lee bought me feeling less like protection now and more like a reminder of everything I’m about to lose.

The receptionist offers her usual kind smile, the one she’s given me through every phase of my healing. Through the dark days after Chelsea when I needed three pairs of nitrile gloves just to function. Through the hope Lee brought with his gift of silk ones. Through today, when even these beautiful gloves can’t protect me from the pain of watching someone I love slip away.

I smooth the silk against my thighs, trying to focus on how far I’ve come rather than how much everything hurts. Dr. Martinez would be proud of the progress—one pair of gloves instead of three, the ability to handle crowds sometimes, the strength to recognize when something’s ending before it destroys you.

But she’d also understand why today feels harder than usual. Why I had to force myself to come instead of hiding in my room. Why watching Lee retreat into bourbon and silence at the photo shoot felt like losing him before I had even officially let him go.

I can still see his face as he pulled away, how he cut me with words rather than allowing me to help him. The chaos I used to love about him is becoming something darker, something dangerous, something that reminds me too much of Chelsea’s final days.

But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

Sitting in this familiar waiting room with silk-covered hands, trying to find the strength to do what needs to be done. Trying to believe that walking away from someone you love can be an act of strength rather than cowardice.

The clock ticks steadily, marking the minutes until my session. Each second feels like another step toward an ending I don’t want but can’t prevent. Because I can’t watch someone else I love destroy themselves. Can’t lose another person to their own demons. Can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.

Progress hurts.

Healing hurts.

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