Page 116 of The Misfit

“Just like that. You might be willing to play games with these people, but I’m not. I won’t gamble with my own heart. The cost is too steep.”

We dance in silence for a moment, and I study his face. There’s something about him, something I can’t quite place. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, a memory just out of reach.

White walls.

Paper slippers.

Group therapy circles.

The memory slips away before I can grasp it, leaving only a vague sense of recognition and unease.

“You’re stronger than they think you are,” he says finally, his voice carrying an edge I don’t understand. “Than anyone thinks you are.”

“Maybe.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Or maybe I’m just tired of being everyone’s puppet. Of being manipulated and managed and measured against standards I’ll never meet.”

His smile shifts into something almost genuine. Almost familiar. Almost known.

“Careful, Salem,” he murmurs as the dance ends. “You’re starting to sound like someone who doesn’t need to count tiles anymore.”

He releases me with a formal bow, leaving me to stand alone in the middle of the dance floor with more questions than answers.

And for the first time since Chelsea, since counting became survival, since gloves became armor …

I wonder if maybe he’s right. I search the room for Lee. I need to figure out how much longer I have to stay here, how much longer I have to pretend.

Dr. Martinez’s voice fills my ears.

“People have to want to change, Salem. You can’t make them. It might feel selfish, but sometimes you have to walk away and protect yourself. In life, you have to be capable of loving yourself before you can love someone else.”

As heartbreaking as it is, she’s right. Lee will never be able to love me unless he loves himself first.

TWENTY-EIGHT

lee

I seehim through the sparkle of crystal chandeliers and society smiles—Pastor James, looking exactly the same as he did at Promised Land. Same wire-rimmed glasses. Same perfectly pressed suit. Same expression of gentle disappointment that preceded everytherapysession.

The room tilts sideways, or maybe that’s just my world shifting. He hasn’t spotted me yet, too engaged in conversation with some society matron, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sixteen again, sitting in that sterile office while he explains how they’re going to fix me. Make me suitable. Make me normal.

My hands shake as I grab the first drink I see—someone’s abandoned whiskey on a nearby table. The liquid burns going down, but not enough to erase the memories. Not enough to silence his voice in my head.“This is for your own good, Lee. Your parents want what’s best for you. We can help you choose the right path.”

The right path. Like there was ever a choice. Like six months of scripture and therapy and structured isolation could change who I really am. Like anything they did in that place could make me less broken.

Another drink appears in my hand—I don’t even care how. But alcohol isn’t enough tonight. Not with Pastor James twenty feet away, probably still believing he helped save my soul. Not with Salem’s earlier dismissal proving once and for all that I’m exactly what they always said—unsuitable, unworthy, unfixable.

She didn’t even hesitate to walk away. Didn’t fight for us. Didn’t give me a chance to explain about the bullies or Promised Land or any of it. Just accepted that everything between us was fake before moving on with perfect composure.

Maybe she had the right idea. Maybe everything about me is fake. Maybe Pastor James and my parents and everyone else were right all along.

The whiskey burns, but not as much as the memories.

Group therapy sessions where we confessed ourunnaturalurges.

Private counseling, where Pastor James explained how myconfusionhurt my family.

Carefully monitored social interactions designed to teach us normal behavior.

Letters from home that only arrived after we’d madeprogress.

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