Page 108 of The Misfit

Drew studies me for a long moment, seeing too much like always. Seeing the cracks in my careful facade. Seeing how everything’s unraveling faster than I can cover it up. I’m tired of even trying to cover it up. Here, with Drew, I don’t have to try. Not when it won’t get me anywhere. He’s always been able to see through my bullshit.

“No surprise there. We’re all messes,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t explain what the actual problem is.”

Where do I start? How do I explain that Salem’s made me better and worse at the same time? That she’s taught me to find beauty in broken things while making me terrified of my own jagged edges? I want to tell him, but I know it won’t change anything. Patterns remain patterns. So instead of pouring my heart out to him, I reach for the bottle again, measuring memories in ounces of escape. Remembering the hurt and betrayed look on her face at the photo shoot and how she disappeared after I was an asshole to her.

“Talking about it won’t change what happened.” I pause. “I’m fine. Everything will be okay in time,” I lie, flashing my practiced Sterling smile. The one that charms society matrons and fools everyone except Drew.

“Bullshit. You just told me you ruined everything with your stupid, selfish needs, and now you expect me to accept your‘everything is fine’response?”

“Forget it. Nothing matters. What’s done is done.” The words come out sharper than intended.

“What do you mean, what’s done is done?” His voice remains neutral. “If you fucked up, I’m sure it can be fixed. Salem cares about you. There is almost nothing you could do that can’t be fixed in some capacity.”

The whiskey doesn’t burn enough anymore. Doesn’t quiet the chaos in my head the way Salem does just by existing in my space. By counting with me. By making everything make sense.

“She deserves better.” I continue to look out the window, watching as everything passes by. “Someone who isn’t broken in all the wrong ways.”

“Lee—”

“Someone who didn’t need Promised Land to fix them.” The confession is out before I can shove it back into my mouth. The stupid whiskey is making me spill all kinds of secrets.

Drew is quiet, too quiet. We don’t talk about Promised Land. About those months I disappeared during our junior year of high school, or about why I started drinking to begin with. It’s easier to pretend that the pain doesn’t exist, that bad things never happened, than to rip open the wounds and try to heal them.

“We both know that’s not true. You never needed to be fixed,” he says quietly. “And Salem would agree.”

“You don’t know that.” I reach for the bottle again, but Drew’s fingers grasp onto it before I can, and he moves it just out of reach.Asshole.“None of you know a damn thing about what I went through when I was there. What they did to me, or the methods they used tofixme.”

“You’re right. We don’t. We don’t know anything. And not because we don’t give a shit about you. We care. You’re like a brother to me, Lee. But you’ve never trusted any of us enough to help you carry your secrets.”

Another minute or two and I’ll be sharing too much. Too much of how my insides are a festering wound of self-hate, and the only things that can turn it off for a few minutes are the alcohol, the sex, and the fighting.

And Salem, my stupid brain supplies.

And Salem.

“I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve to even have her in my life. Or even have a fucking life at this point.” I spin over the console and go for the bottle. He tries to grapple me away while keeping his hand on the wheel, but I still manage to get it. “If you want me to talk, you dick, I need this.”

“Stop being stupid. You don’t need that, and so what? You messed up. Just means you’re human. No point in crying over it. Just man up and fix it.”

“I’m not crying, asshole,” I growl. The secrets, the pain … all of it’s boiling to the top, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep a lid on it.

“Then stop whining about it and tell me what the hell happened. Tell me the truth so I can help you.”

“I don’t know if you can help me. If anyone can help me. Maybe I’m past the point of help.” My voice trembles, and I hate it. I hate how vulnerable I am, hate how I can’t hide behind the lies or any of the many masks I’ve worn anymore. The pain reaches the very top of the pot, and all of the darkness pours out of me. “They tried to pray it away.” The words taste like ash and old fear. “Six months of scripture and therapy and learning how to be the perfect Sterling son. Six months of lashes with the belt when I didn’t say the words the way they wanted. How to want the right things. The right people. How to be fucking normal.”

Drew doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets the confession hang between us.

“They did what?” There’s an undercurrent of anger in his voice. “I’ve seen the scars and knew it had to be bad, but shit, man. Fuck.”

This time, I take a long draw of the liquor, needing it to burn away this ache, this pain inside. “Well, it didn’t work, did it? Still bi. Still a disappointment. Still drinking just to be able to handle family functions. Still …” I remember Salem’s face when I propositioned her at the photo shoot. “Still fucking up everything good in my life.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. We both know Salem isn’t the type to judge. She wouldn’t care about Promised Land.” Drew’s voice is gentle but firm. “The only thing that would matter to her is that you’re hurting. That you’re pushing her away instead of letting her in and giving her the opportunity to understand.”

I’m past wanting to hear any of this shit. I haven’t texted her, but she also hasn’t reached out to me either. Not even a fuck you very much to let me know she’s safe or still alive.

“Take me to Salem’s house,” I say, shifting to look at him. “I just need to know she’s okay.”

Drew lets out a low, dark chuckle. “Not fucking happening, man.”

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