Page 110 of The Misfit

The speech I prepared dies in my throat. The truths I came to tell shrivel under her controlled dismissal. This isn’t my Salem—the one who shares quiet moments and understands unspoken words. This is someone else entirely. Someone who’s built new walls, stronger, reinforced ones. Someone who’s decided I’m not worth the effort of being let in. Someone who’s learned to protect herself—fromme.

This is my fault. I did this to her, to us. She has every right to feel the way she does.

The memory of Drew’s encouragement feels distant now, foolish. How could I think telling her everything would help when she’s clearly decided I’m not worth the risk anymore?Dammit.I should walk away. But I can’t. I can’t do it. Not without trying.

I sink into the chair, measuring my movements to avoid disrupting her study materials. “You wanted to talk?”

“Don’t you think you have something to say to me first?” Her pen moves across her notebook in precise strokes, but I notice her hand trembling.

She’s not as composed as she’s pretending to be.

“The gala.” I keep my voice low and steady. “The engagement announcement for my sister. I know it’s not what you signed up for, dealing with my family like this. If you want an out?—”

“Is that it?” She finally meets my eyes. “Really?”

“No.” The word comes fast, honest. “That’s not— No. First, I need to apologize. I was a complete asshole, and you had every right to call me on my shit.”

Something in her gaze softens just slightly. “And?”

“Salem, please—” I want to ask what she wants me to say.

What can I do to fix this?The look in her eyes says I should know already. And I do, but fuck, how do I tell her everything? How do I come clean?

“If I were you, I’d start with an apology. If you don’t plan on apologizing … If you’re here to talk about us, there is nothing to discuss. What’s done is done. If you’re here about the gala, just tell me what you need. Time, place, dress code. I’ll be there. That was the deal, right?”

The deal.Like that’s all this is. All we are. All we’ve been. I won’t lie, it hurts real fucking bad, but again, I deserve it. I deserve whatever she wants to throw at me.

“Yeah.” My voice sounds strange, hollow. “That was the deal.”

She nods once, efficient and distant. “Okay, so please tell me what I need to know so I can get back to studying.”

I look away from her face, letting my gaze drift over her frame. There’s a slight tremble in her hands as she adjusts her notebook’s position. It’s impossible to miss the bob of her throat as she swallows back whatever words she wanted to say. The pain in my chest intensifies, and I know I’m only handing her the bricks, helping her to build the walls between us with every careful word she chooses to speak.

I want Salem.

I want her to be mine, truly, but I’m not stupid. The pain and anger I’ve caused her, the way I’ve hurt her. I took her trust and smashed it. If it isn’t obvious now, I don’t know when it will be. I’m nothing more than a complication in her life. I can’t add my shit onto hers. I can’t make her carry my issues when I’m barely managing to carry them myself. I made the selfish choice to find a way to make her mine, and it bit me in the ass. Now, I have to suffer the consequences.

So I swallow my confessions and give her what she’s asking for.

Distance.

Formality.

Business.

Even if it kills me.

“Right. So the gala starts at eight,” I say, slipping into the polite tone I learned to adopt for societal functions. “Black tie, obviously. My mother’s going all out—full orchestra, ice sculptures, the works. It’s at the Grand Hotel downtown again. The family loves that fucking place.”

“Great.” Salem makes a note in her planner, her handwriting lacking its usual precise care. “Dress code specifics?”

“Actually …” I reach for the garment bag I’d set aside, the one I spent hours choosing with her in mind. “I already took care of that part.”

She stares at the bag like it might bite her. “You didn’t need to?—”

“It’s burgundy.” I interrupt, needing her to understand at least this much. “Like the one from the charity event. It’s different enough that no one will compare them. The back is higher, more coverage. And it has pockets. Hidden ones, but real ones. I know you like having somewhere to put your hands when things get overwhelming.”

Shock that morphs into pain flickers in her expression. “That’s … thorough of you.”

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