Page 14 of The Misfit

A third.Emma.

I ignore them all, pressing my forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel. Focus on breathing. In. Out. Don’t think about the walls closing in or the weight of expectations or how fucking unfair it all is.

A flash of memory hits—brown eyes in a dark pantry, gentle understanding without judgment. No expectations. No demands. Just the quiet acceptance of broken pieces.

I sit up so fast my head spins. Pantry Girl. The one person who might understand what it’s like to wear masks, navigate other people’s expectations, and be broken without needing to be fixed. It’s a terrible idea. Probably the worst I’ve had, and that’s saying something, considering last month’s naked skydiving incident.

But …

She needs something, too. I saw it in her eyes and heard it in the whispers at the party. She needs protection, legitimacy, a shield against whatever demons chase her through campus.

I could give her that. But I need aninfirst. I think back to the files and squeeze my eyes closed. Dr. Martinez was her doctor at Willow Grove, and by her letterhead, I noticed she also has a private outpatient practice. Might be something to check out. Give me a way to connect with her on a familiar level.

Fuck, if everything in those files is true, no wonder that happy girl broke under the strain. Losing so much so fast like she did. And by the notes on her home life, she’s not as accustomed to the push and pull of familial expectations as my friends and I are.

She could give me three months of freedom, three months to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. There’s only one little hang-up. She’s definitely a runner, so getting her to agree to what I have in mind won’t be easy.

My phone buzzes again. It’s probably my mother with a list of suitable candidates—all daughters of her garden club cronies, I’m sure.

Fuck it.

I start the Jeep, its familiar rumble grounding me as my mind races ahead, plans forming and dissolving like smoke. It’s insane. It’s perfect. It’s probably going to blow up in both of our faces.

But anything’s better than letting them win.

Time to make sure my Pantry Girl gets an offer she can’t refuse.

The tires spit gravel as I finally peel out of Sterling Grove, the Jeep’s engine roaring in protest. In my rearview mirror, Mother stands in the doorway, one hand pressed to her throat.

Sorry, Mother.Your son’s about to disappoint you one more time.

Maybe it’ll be worth it this time.

FIVE

salem

One week later,I find myself between a rock and a hard spot. I should’ve known Bel would make good on her word of hanging out again. I guess I had assumed she only said it to be nice.Surprise. She wasn’t lying.

That’s why I’ve been staring at her text for the past twenty-three minutes, riding an endless roller coaster of emotions. I don’t know if I’m ready to do this again.

My fingers tap against my desk,one, two, three, pause, repeat. The soothing motion gives me something to focus on besides the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

Bel:Small get-together at my place tonight. Eight p.m. Just a few friends. I would love to see you there.

Just a few friends.That could mean anything.Ten people? Twenty?What constitutes“small”to someone like Bel? Does she even have fewer than ten friends? My breath hitches, and I start gathering all the supplies I’ll need before I can talk myself out of going.

I’ve already talked myself out of it three times.

Clean gloves—three pairs, neatly sealed in individual ziplock bags.

Travel-size hand sanitizer—two bottles, unopened.

Wet wipes—one package, fresh.

Phone—fully charged.

Keys—checked three times they’re actually in my bag.

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