Page 62 of The Misfit

“That’s it,” he whispers, low enough only I can hear. “Focus on my hands. Count with me.”

One piece of broken pencil.

Two tissues to wrap them in.

Three seconds before Marcus speaks again.

“Awwww. Chelsea would be so proud,” Marcus continues, each word calculated to hurt. “Her best friend, hooking up with one of the football players. One of the Oakmount elite at that.”

A memory filters back, and I can’t stop it.

My phone vibrating across my dresser with text after text.If I had looked at my phone that night, read those messages, if I had been there, then maybe …

“Enough.” Lee’s razor-edged tone cuts him off.

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t even turned around, but his tone makes Marcus’s words die in his throat. Without anything to distract me, more memories flood into my mind, pressing against my skull like a vise.

Chelsea’s laugh. Her bright smile. The way she used to defend me before … before …

“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” Lee’s voice is a gentle stroke against my cheek, slowly pulling me back toward reality, but there’s no escaping the past when the present is a direct consequence of those actions.

This strange sound escapes my throat, and I realize I’m gasping for air.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m losing control.

Marcus stands, taking deliberate steps toward our table. “Can’t breathe, huh?”

I can breathe, but it feels like I can’t. I know it’s in my head. I think back to all the therapy I did, all the sessions with Dr. Martinez. My lungs burn, and my chest aches, pain radiating through it with every beat of my heart.

Find something to ground yourself.

“Guess you know what it feels like to be in Chelsea’s place then, huh?” Marcus’s words, his voice, all of it is like little needles poking into my skin.

I need this to end, need him to leave, or else I need to leave, but my legs … I try to lift them, to force myself to move, but they might as well weigh ten thousand pounds. “Does your boyfriend know about what happened that night? Why everyone hates you?”

“I’m warning you, Marcus. Walk away now, or I’m kicking your fucking ass,” Lee growls at Marcus but keeps his gaze on me. I can visibly see his muscles coiling, tighter and tighter. He might look unaffected, but it’s obvious, at least to me, that he’s close to exploding. “Breathe, Pantry Girl. One, two, three.”

But I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t stop the fragments of memory from splintering through the cracks.

Chelsea’s voice:I love these cliffs. They always feel like coming home.

Marcus’s laugh as he kissed her cheek.

Chelsea crying about him not texting or calling or acknowledging her at football events.

My gloves squeak against the table as I press them to the wood, trying to ground myself. Lee notices—he always notices—and shifts, putting his body between Marcus and me without being obvious about it.

“I’m not scared of you, Lee. Your name might get you the royal treatment from others, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“We’ll see about that.” There’s a warning woven in Lee’s response.

“Be warned, Sterling, whatever that girl touches, she destroys, so be careful, or you might end up just like Chelsea.”

I won’t lie. It hurts to hear him say such a terrible thing, but I can’t change his feelings or thoughts about me. Therapy helped me realize that I’m not the problem for Marcus. I’m just the easiest available outlet for his anger, but that doesn’t make anything he says true.

Turning, he retreats to his table without looking back.

“Piece of fucking shit,” Lee mutters under his breath. His body is drawn tight, like a bowstring, and even if he wears a look of rage on his face, he stays beside me, remaining in a protective position.

---