Page 34 of The Misfit

I hate how obvious I am.

Noah:I know you too well. Just wanted to know if I needed to call in the fake emergency yet or not.

Me:Crisis averted. I’m fine. He’s just …

Noah:Weird? Triggering? Reckless?

Me:No. He’s … careful.

I hit send on the message and watch through the window as Lee runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes all the effort he put into styling it a waste. A moment later, he looks down, checking his phone once more before he returns to wiping down the table again. My phone vibrates once, twice, three times. After the third time, I look back down at the screen.

Noah:Careful? What does that mean?

Noah:Are you still there?

Noah:Faking appendicitis if I don’t hear from you in five.

All I can do is smile.

Me:I’m still here. Sorry I zoned out. He’s cleaning everything.

Noah: What?

Me:Like I would. Three times.

Noah: Huh? Maybe he’s crazy, too.

Me:Maybe we all are.

My phone screen lights up again, but I ignore it. Probably Noah with another check-in, or Mom wondering why I needed three new pairs of gloves this morning, or Dr. Martinez responding to my panicked mid-dawn text message. We have an appointment coming up, but I still needed … I don’t know … validation?

My attention is entirely on Lee. He’s fidgeting now, unable to keep still—leg bouncing, fingers drumming, constantly checking his phone. His eyes drift to my carefully prepared seat every few seconds, adjusting things minutely.

The contrast strikes me: his chaotic energy versus his precise attention to my needs. It’s like he’s containing his own nature to make space for mine. No one outside of my own family does that for me. No one …

“Fuck it,” I whisper, reaching for my door handle.

The leather squeaks against my nitrile gloves, and I head for the door. The bell above chimes as I enter, and I swear every molecule of air shifts inside me.

Exits (three—front door, kitchen, emergency).

People (seven customers, two baristas).

Surfaces to avoid (basically everything).

And one man, looking up at me like I’m something interesting and terrifying all at once.

“You came.” His voice is soft, and he remains seated instead of jumping out of his chair to greet me. Everything about his posture screams well-constructed restraint, minus his leg, which continues to bounce under the table like he’s containing lightning.

I do my best to focus on anything except how my heart is trying to escape my rib cage. “You cleaned.”

A flush of embarrassment creeps up his neck. “Yeah, I figured it might make things easier. Did I … did I do it right?”

His uncertainty catches me off guard. This isn’t the Lee that I’ve heard so many things about—the reckless, wild man who cares about no one’s opinion but his own. But it is him. I’m just seeing him in a different light.Unfiltered. Raw.

He watches me with those gray eyes, waiting to see if his efforts meet my standards. I approach the table slowly, inspecting his work. Everything is sealed. Everything is clean. Everything is perfect.

“You did it three times,” I say, not quite asking but stating.

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