Page 12 of The Misfit

Five hundred feet of perfectly manicured driveway stretches before me. I could still turn around. Go back to bed. Move to Mexico. Start a new family line of Sterlings who actually know how to have fun.

My brain helpfully supplies images of sun-soaked beaches and tequila before skittering to the last time my mother got fed up with me. Six months at Promised Land Prayer Camp when I was sixteen. All because I kissed Tommy Rodriguez behind the gymnasium and somehelpfulsoul informed the Sterling family patriarch that his grandson was “straying from God’s path.”

“Pray away the gay,” I mutter, hitting the gas a little harder than necessary. Gravel crunches under my tires, probably leaving marks on their precious driveway. “Because that worked out so well for everyone.”

Sterling House grows larger with each passing second, a looming Georgian monstrosity that’s been featured in more architectural magazines than I’ve had sexual partners—and that’s saying something. Every window feels like an accusation. Every perfectly trimmed hedge is another reminder of the Sterling family motto: Excellence Without Exception.

I check my phone. I’m three minutes late. Mother will have noticed. She notices everything except what matters. Like how many times I’ve traced the words carved above the library fireplace, “Sterling Men Lead, Sterling Women Breed,” and wanted to vomit.

The memory of Promised Land hits again—scratchy sheets, scripture readings, and group therapy where they made us list our sins. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory, but my mind’s already racing.

Wonder if Tommy ever came out?

Wonder if he’s happy?

Wonder if that girl from the pantry likes cherry-flavored anything else or if it was just whatever she drank that night?

Focus.

I park crookedly, taking up two spaces just because I can. Anything to piss them off a little more. The front door opens before I kill the engine, and there she stands. Katherine Sterling in all her perfectly coiffed glory, mouth already pinched in disapproval. As always, her gray hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her makeup minimal, her cream sweater set ironed to within an inch of its life.

“You’re late,” she calls out. “And what on earth are you wearing? The garden club is here for breakfast. What will they think?”

I glance down at my deliberately chosen outfit—ripped jeans, vintage band tee, and the leather jacket that made her cry when she first saw it. “Sunday best, Mother. Just for you. Gotta uphold the Sterling name and all that bullshit.”

Her sigh could wither the prize-winning roses she’s so proud of. I grin and bounce up the steps, ignoring the churning in my stomach that has nothing to do with my hangover. Time to face the firing squad. Wonder what brilliant plan they’ve cooked up this time to save the Sterling family reputation from their disappointment of a son.

Walking into the house always feels like stepping into a museum. Everything gleams—the marble floors, the crystal chandelier, the gilt-framed portraits of dead relatives judging me from every wall. The sound of my combat boots on the pristine floor makes Mother wince.Good.

“Your grandfather is waiting in the study,” she says, already fussing with my collar. I dodge her hands, my attention scattered between the ticking of the grandfather clock (two minutes fast, always has been), the murmur of voices from the breakfast room (garden club vultures, no doubt taking notes on the family scandal), and the way dust motes dance in the morning light streaming through the windows(when was the last time I slept a full night?).

“Wonderful. Nothing says good morning like disappointing three generations at once.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, my filter apparently still drunk from last night.

Mother’s lips thin to nearly nothing. “Just … try to behave, Lee. This is important.”

I’m already moving, unable to stand still under her scrutiny. My fingers trail along the wainscotting as I walk—one, two, three panels until the doorway. An old habit from childhood, when counting things made this place feel less suffocating.

The study door looms at the end of the hall, solid oak and heavy with purpose. I can practically smell the brandy and privilege leaking out from under it. Through the wood, I hear my father’s voice, then Grandfather’s deeper tone. They’re undoubtedly discussing stock portfolios or which country club member’s daughter would make the best broodmare for their wayward heir.

My hand hesitates on the doorknob. The metal is cool against my palm, and I let it ground me for a moment. Behind me, Mother makes a small sound of impatience.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, too low for her to hear, and push open the door.

The study hits all my senses at once—leather and tobacco and old books, late morning sun casting shadows over the window seats, the steadytick-tick-tickof Father’s pretentious desk clock. Grandfather Sterling occupies his usual throne by the fireplace, looking like he just stepped out of aRich White Men Monthlyphoto shoot. Father stands behind his massive desk, probably for maximum authoritative effect.

I drop into the leather chair across from the desk, deliberately sprawling. “Good morning, family. Lovely day for an intervention, isn’t it?”

Father’s jaw twitches.One point to me.

“Your sister’s engagement will be announced at the Autumn Sterling Foundation Charity Gala.” Grandfather’s voice fills the study like smoke, heavy and suffocating. My leg bounces, fingers drumming against my thigh as I try to focus on his words and not the way the clock keepstick-tick-tickingor how Father’s pen scratches against paper.

“Fascinating. Good for Emma. Is that why you dragged me here at the ass crack of dawn? To tell me my sister’s finally making an honest man out of James? Not going to lie, I personally think this meeting could have been an email.”

Father clears his throat, and I grab a crystal paperweight off his desk, needing something to occupy my hands. “The charity gala is our most important social event, Lee.”

The paperweight catches the light, sending little rainbows dancing across the walls. Pretty.Wonder if that girl from the pantry likes rainbows.Focus. They’re still talking.

“Which is why,” Grandfather continues, “you will also be presenting your future partner that evening.”

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