Page 66 of The Misfit

I navigate back to the browser and scroll through the page.

“No, no, definitely not …” I mutter, rejecting another dozen options. Too much exposed skin. Too many beads that could fall off and disrupt her counting. Too?—

Thankfully, Bel replies to my text right then.

Bel:Hold please. I have the perfect dress.

Me:You’re the best. If I was with you, I would kiss you right now.

My phone buzzes with a response that only includes a link. I click on it, and it brings me to some boutique. The screen loads, and I damn near gasp at the sight of the dress on the screen. It’s fucking perfect—deep burgundy silk that will make Salem’s brown eyes look soft and sparkling, a high neck for modesty, long sleeves that will meet her gloves, and a flowing skirt that won’t make her feel trapped.

Me:Scratch that. I would marry you.

Me:But the gloves …

Bel:Already handled.

Lifesaver.If Drew doesn’t marry her, I may consider it.

All I can do is smile when another message comes through with a link. I click on it, and once again, I’m so thankful that one of my best friends found such a great-ass woman.

The website is for custom silk gloves from some designer I’ve never heard of, available in three different lengths and styles. The price tag is astronomical, but the description promises the softest silk imaginable.

One pair in classic elbow length. The next opera length with tiny pearl buttons.

Fuck it.I buy three different pairs to make her feel safe and elegant at the same time.

I smile, and the desire to share this news and excitement with Salem bubbles out of me. I should text her. Yes. But then I pause, the impulsive reaction fading into fear. Fear of failing, of fucking this all up. How do I explain that I’m not doing this all for show, that she’s not some trophy I want to show off? That I want her to feel as beautiful as I see her?

I’m reminded of her comment at the coffee shop the other day. She said not to complicate things, not to make it harder for her to separate real from fake, but none of this is fake. It never was to me … yet to text her and share these little details with her would blur the lines. It would complicate things. So even if I want to share this moment with her, I know I can’t.

Irritation over the situation pricks at my skin, but I don’t let the anger drag me down. I put that energy into ensuring the event will be as good of an experience for her as it is for anyone else. Navigating to the browser, I search for the hotel’s number and hit the call button.

The manager answers on the first ring—Sterlings always get priority service.

“Mr. Sterling, how can I assist?”

“The charity event next weekend.” I pace my living room, counting steps. “I need some special arrangements made.”

“Of course, sir.”

This is what wealth and having the perfect last name get you.

“Great. So the entrance needs to be completely clear. I want no crowds. And I need a private space set up with sealed water bottles, hand sanitizer, and the works. High-end stuff, nothing that looks medical.”

“Certainly. Anything else?”

I think of Salem, of all her careful patterns and needs. “Yes, I need the exact number of tiles in every room we might enter. Floor and ceiling. And make sure all the surfaces are sanitized. Three times.”

There’s a pause, then, “Three times, sir?”

“Three times,” I confirm. “It’s important.”

I go over the details a couple more times with the manager. Making sure that everything is perfect, safe, and controlled. The way Salem needs it to be. The way I need it to be for her. It’s the least I can do, knowing I’m dragging her into a mess that will most likely induce a panic attack and require, at minimum, a month’s worth of therapy.

When I finally hang up, I’m still irritated, but for reasons that I can’t change. I stare at my phone. At the dress website, which is still open. At the glove order confirmation. All that’s left is to ask her to accompany me. Of course she will go. All I need to do is tell her when and what to wear, but for me, it’s deeper than that.It’s personal.

For the first time in my life, I want something, someone who I don’t deserve, that I can’t really have. It’s no longer us practicing at the coffee shop. Meeting my family is tossing her into shark-infested waters. I won’t be able to hide all the fucked-up pieces of who I am anymore. So far, she’s only seen what I’ve allowed her to see. At the event, the veil will be pulled back. She’ll step inside my world completely, and I don’t know what she’ll think or make of it.

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