Page 117 of The Misfit

I reach for another drink, needing to drown the past before it drowns me. Needing to forget Pastor James and Promised Land and the way Salem looked at me earlier—like I was nothing more than a business arrangement she couldn’t wait to conclude.

They were right about me all along.

I don’t deserve real connections.

I don’t deserve genuine love.

I don’t deserve Salem’s careful patterns or measured breaths or perfectly ordered world.

So I’ll do what I do best.

I’ll drink until the memories blur, and I’ll pretend nothing matters, and I’ll prove them all right about exactly how unsuitable I really am.

Even if it kills me.

Even if I lose everything.

Even if Salem’s dismissal already feels like drowning.

“There you are, darling.” Mother’s voice cuts through my bourbon haze. “We need family photos before the announcement. Do try to look presentable.”

Family photos. We take so fucking many of them, like we’re actually a family and not just perfectly arranged props in her ongoing performance. Like Pastor James isn’t watching from across the room, probably proud of how well his therapy took.

“Where’s Salem?” Mother continues, brushing invisible lint from my jacket. “She needs to be in these. One last official documentation of your … experiment. When you and Charlotte marry, you can use them in party anecdotes about how you tried to run away from your destiny.”

I want to tell her to fuck off because she’s just being cruel, rubbing it in.

I want to throw my drink in her perfectly made-up face. I want to scream that Salem isn’t an experiment—she’s everything that’s real in my fake world. But the bourbon’s made my tongue heavy, my thoughts slow.

“I’ll find her.” Aries appears beside us, all perfect society manners. When did he get so good at this? “Lee, maybe you should freshen up first.”

The suggestion carries weight I’m too drunk to interpret. But before I can respond, I see her—Salem, moving through the crowd with careful grace. The burgundy dress I chose flows around her legs, making her look like something from a dream. A dream I never deserved.

She approaches without being called, probably seeing the gathering of family members. Always so aware of her obligations. Always so perfect in her performance.

“Salem, darling.” Mother’s voice drips honey-coated venom. “We were just looking for you. Family photos, you know.”

“Of course.” Salem’s smile is flawless, practiced, empty. She takes her place beside me without touching me, maintaining a careful distance that feels like miles.

She smells like cherry blossoms and heartbreak. The scent makes me want another drink, but Aries has conveniently disappeared with my glass.

“Lee,” she says softly, perfectly polite. “You might want to stand up straighter.”

The gentle suggestion hurts worse than any cruelty. Because this is what we’ve become—strangers exchanging careful words, maintaining perfect appearances, pretending we never counted breaths together at three a.m.

“Right,” I manage, trying to focus through the bourbon. “Wouldn’t want to ruin Mother’s perfect photos.”

Something flickers in Salem’s eyes—pain? Pity? It doesn’t matter; her smile never wavers. She’s better at this performance than I ever was. Better at maintaining composure. Better at everything.

No wonder she found it so easy to walk away.

No wonder she saw through all my carefully constructed walls.

No wonder she’s ready to be done with this arrangement.

The photographer starts arranging us, and Salem shifts slightly, creating more space between us. Even drunk, I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical wound.

This is what I deserve, isn’t it?

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