Page 27 of The Misfit

That’s something, right?

“Can we …?” I glance at Noah, then back at Salem. “Talk? Just for a minute?”

Salem shifts her weight, and I notice how one foot slides back toward the door.Retreat position.That’s expected, but I’m patient and can be very persuasive. The only issue is I don’t have a lot of time. I need Salem to agree to be my fake girlfriend ASAP to escape my mother’s meddling. My heart kicks against my ribs, and I feel the pinch of anxiety.

“It’s late,” she whispers. “And I need to change my gloves, and count the kitchen tiles, and probably have a panic attack about you knowing where I live.”

The honesty in her voice and the way she just puts it out there without shame hits like a punch to the gut. When was the last time I was that real with anyone? Everything I do is measured to ensure the least embarrassment so I don’t make a dumb decision or say something out of line.

“I have ADHD,” I blurt out. “And probably a bunch of other mental health problems my family pretends don’t exist. Sometimes I can’t sit still or shut up or stop myself from doing stupid things like following pretty girls home because they look at me and see beneath the variety of masks I wear to cover up the realness that’s beneath.”

Noah makes a choking sound. Salem’s lips part as if she has something to say.

“And sometimes,” I continue because apparently my filter is completely fucked, and what does it matter at this point, “I hide in pantries because everything gets too loud, and bright, and then I meet someone who understands me without explanation. Someone who is wearing latex gloves and counting her breaths, and well, she’s terrified of being different, yet she has no idea how special she is.”

Her expression softens, and I know she not only sees it but she also understands.

“You’re crazy,” she whispers, but it doesn’t sound like an accusation.

“Probably,” I agree.Most definitely.I don’t think she would take well to discovering just how crazy about her, about all of this, I am. “Want to be crazy together?”

Noah groans. “Oh my god.”

But Salem … Salem damn near smiles.

“Coffee,” I say suddenly like it’s the answer to everything. “Tomorrow? Let me explain myself properly without your brother plotting my murder in the background or any expectations.”

“I’m not plotting,” Noah protests. “Just considering it a potential option.”

Salem fidgets with her gloves, and I hold up the clean ones.

“Why don’t we meet at the coffee shop on Oak Street? They have individually sealed creamers, and those paper sleeve things for the cups.”

I know that coffee shop is her favorite. She’s checked in there on social media more times than anywhere else. Salem bites her lip, and I force myself to remain standing there, to let her process what I’ve said. One, two, three seconds of silence.

“Why?” she finally asks. It’s a simple question but one I don’t have an appropriate answer to.Because you might be my salvation.She has no idea how insane I can be, and she won’t have to find out so long as she agrees.

I push the thought away and take a careful step forward, close enough to hand her the gloves but not enough to spook her. “Give me the chance to explain myself and my idea. I’m not asking you to agree tonight.”

She takes the Ziploc bag, her fingers careful not to brush mine. “I don’t know.” I want to banish the wavering apprehension in her voice.

“Please? Just hear me out. Meet me for coffee. Nothing more. Tomorrow? At ten?”

Pausing, she chews on her bottom lip as if weighing her options. This is a big step for her, and I understand her fear, even if I don’t like it.

“Please?” I add for safe measure.

She sighs, no doubt her anxiety prickling. “Fine. Let’s meet at ten.”

“This is either really sweet or really serial killer-ish,” Noah comments.

“Totes not a serial killer.” I smile and wink.

“That’s to be determined.” Noah smirks back.

“I can’t promise you an answer,” she adds.

I back away, hands raised in surrender. “I don’t need an answer, Pantry Girl. I just need you to hear me out.”

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