Page 118 of The Misfit

This careful distance.

This perfect politeness.

This gentle dismissal from someone who saw all of me and found me wanting.

Just like Pastor James predicted.

Just like Mother always knew.

Just like everyone eventually comes to realize.

I’m not suitable for anyone.

Especially not Salem.

The photos feel endless—Mother arranging and rearranging us like dolls in her perfect tableau. Salem maintains her flawless smile, her careful distance, her impeccable performance. I maintain my vertical position through sheer spite and several more stolen drinks.

Emma glows with genuine happiness about her engagement, making everything worse. Because this is what real love looks like. This is everything I’ll never have, everything I don’t deserve.

“Just a few more,” the photographer calls, adjusting lights that send pain stabbing through my head. “Mr. Sterling, perhaps you could stand closer to Miss Masters?”

Salem doesn’t flinch when I sway nearer. Doesn’t react when my hand brushes her waist. Doesn’t show any sign that we ever meant anything to each other beyond this carefully choreographed scene.

“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, but nothing is perfect. Not the way Salem holds herself rigid beside me. Not the way Mother watches with calculating eyes. Not the way Pastor James lingers at the edges of the crowd, a constant reminder of everything I tried to drink away.

“Almost done,” Salem whispers, and I hate how gentle she sounds. Like I’m something fragile. Something broken. Something that needs her careful handling even now.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don’t pretend to care.”

She does flinch then, just slightly. A crack in her perfect composure that disappears so quickly I might have imagined it.

“Lee—”

“You made yourself clear earlier.” The bourbon makes me cruel, honest, and desperate. “This is just business, right? An arrangement. The final performance.”

The camera captures her careful mask slipping back into place. Captures the way she steps slightly away from me. Captures the exact moment I realize I’ve lost the only real thing I’ve ever had.

“Yes,” she says quietly, perfectly poised even now. “That’s exactly what this is.”

The words hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. Because she’s right, this is what it’s always been—a business arrangement. A careful negotiation. A perfectly executed performance by someone who deserves so much better than my mess of a life.

Mother calls for more poses, more arrangements, more perfect documentation of her perfect family. And through it all, Salem plays her part flawlessly.

While I drown in bourbon and memories and the growing certainty that Pastor James was right—I’ll never be suitable for anyone’s real love story.

Especially not hers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mother’s voice rings through the ballroom, commanding attention like always. “We have a very special announcement.”

Emma steps forward with her fiancé, both radiating joy that makes my stomach turn. Or maybe that’s the bourbon. Either way, I find myself reaching for another drink as Mother launches into her perfectly rehearsed speech about love and family and joyous matches.

Through the crystal blur of my glass, I watch Salem. Watch how she maintains her smile even as she starts easing toward the edge of the crowd. Watch how she measures her retreat so carefully that almost no one notices.

Almost no one except me.

She’s leaving. Really leaving. Not just the party, but my life. Walking away with the same quiet dignity she’s shown all night. No drama. No scenes. No chance for me to fix any of it.

I want to stop her. Want to explain about the bullies, about Promised Land,about how everything real and fake got so tangled up I can’t tell the difference anymore. But the bourbon’s made my legs heavy, my thoughts scattered, my timing shit.

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