Page 105 of The Misfit

“Then I choose myself. Choose my healing. Choose to be strong enough to walk away before history repeats itself.”

“And if he does prove you wrong?”

Hope flutters in my chest, dangerous but unstoppable. “Then maybe … maybe some love stories don’t have to end. Maybe some chaos can be beautiful again. Maybe some patterns are worth fighting for.”

“I’m proud of you, Salem. So proud.” Dr. Martinez gives me a hug after the session ends.

I leave her office carrying that hope like a fragile bird in my chest. I don’t know, though. Lee hasn’t reached out after the photo shoot, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to reach out to him, either.

In my car, I stare at the gloves, the silk glinting in the light through the window. They are beautiful. I’ve been careful about wearing them, treasuring them. As if my heart knows that once this is all over, they are the only thing I’ll have left of him.

I refuse to check my phone. To refresh my text messages and my social media messages or my call log. I refuse to sit here and cry for hours while I wait for him to decide whether I’m worthy of his apology. I don’t even know if he understands how wrong that day went.

Losing him feels like I’m losing Chelsea all over again. And I don’t think I’ll survive another loss like that.

Please, Lee.

Prove me wrong.

Please.

TWENTY-FIVE

lee

The dayswithout Salem by my side make time feel different. The hours and seconds bleed together. Everything is torture without her.It’s your own fault, idiot.I remind myself of that and let the loss of her presence disappear between the drinks.

The Mill feels different in daylight—emptier, older, honest. I hate it. The afternoon sun streams through windows that usually only reflect neon and shadows, catching dust motes that dance like memories I can’t quite catch.

I’m angry with myself, with my mother, at this entire fucking world. And if I stay inside this house another second, I’ll lose my fucking mind. None of The Mill activities have started yet, not until the fall, but I can’t go home either. Not when every surface reminds me of her being there, telling me how proud she was.

How could I have ruined things so badly with her at the photo shoot? I throw back a shot of whatever bottle is within reach. It’s brown, and it burns as it goes down, and that’s all I really care about. When I get tired of watching the dust motes stream through the light, I totter off the stool. The world shifts, and I wobble on my legs.

Shit. How much have I had already?

What’s the point? Does it really matter? I’ve been drinking and walking around this lonely, empty house all day. It was either get drunk or make a scene, and god knows I’ve done enough of that. I don’t know why I do it, but when I check my phone for the hundredth time, the screen is still blank. No texts or phone calls.

Why would she text, you idiot?I guess I don’t know.I’ve been too much of a chickenshit to text her, and an apology seems too small for what I did to her, how I made her feel. I don’t know how to fix this, fix myself, fix us. All I can think to do is drink until the pain in my chest no longer exists.

Fuck this place. I grab my wallet and keys and head to the door. Fuck. I can barely walk; how the hell am I supposed to drive somewhere? I look down and notice a different bottle of alcohol in my hand.

Shit. Where did this bottle come from?

I squint to make out the words.

Jack Daniel’s Coy Hill.

Well, apparently, when I’ve given up on life, I reach for the good shit.

Instead of fighting gravity, I sink to the steps and sit.How pathetic; even my legs have given up on me.When my phone vibrates, I spin it in my hand to check the screen, but it won’t recognize my face.Fucking story of my life.I spend another minute remembering and punching in the passcode the fucking thing demands in place of my image.

I click the first lit notification, hope soaring in my chest, only to deflate like a balloon when I realize it isn’t Salem but Ely.

Ely:Come save me from Sebastian.

I can’t help but grin.

Me:I’m not getting between that man and your vagina. Wait a minute, I might. He is awfully pretty.

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