Page 71 of The Misfit

“Shit, Salem, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I can’t seem to …” His fingers slice through the strands of his styled dark brown hair, destroying the perfect arrangement. “This entire night is a shit show.”

I know that feeling. God, do I know it? But Lee’s always been my anchor in those moments, steady and sure. Now he’s drowning, too, and I don’t know how to save us both.

To make matters worse, his mother materializes beside us.

“Darling.” Katherine Sterling’s voice could freeze hell. “The Hendersons are simply dying to meet your …friend.Do bring her over.”

Lee’s entire body freezes, every muscle tight, rigid.

Another glass. Another forced smile. Another crack in our perfect facade. I want to count the steps between us and safety, want to measure the distance to our quiet room, want to calculate our escape route. But I can’t because Lee’s usual steady presence is fractured, leaving me unmoored in a sea of silk and judgment.

“Of course, Mother.” His voice sounds strange, strained. “I’d love to introduce Salem to them.” But he wouldn’t. And he knows it. And I know it. And somehow everything we’ve built over these months—all our patterns and practices and perfect understanding—slides away like a dropped strand of pearls.

Lee continues to slip further and further away, even as he stands right beside me. I don’t know this stranger. And all the things we practiced? None of it matters. Nothing would prepare either of us for what’s happening.

Against my better instincts, I let Lee lead me through a crowd of predators while I continue to try to find our rhythm again. But there is no rhythm, no Lee and Salem.

The string quartet starts a waltz, and Lee’s hand finds my waist. We’ve practiced this and perfected it over weeks of private lessons in his apartment. The steps should be automatic, safe, and controlled. Just like we rehearsed.

Instead, he stumbles.

“Shit,” he mutters, his feet getting tangled with mine. His hand slides against my back, missing its usual anchor point.

“Lee, please,” I whisper as we narrowly avoid running into another couple. “Slow down.”

But he’s not listening. His eyes keep darting to his mother, who stands at the edge of the dance floor with the Hendersons. Their daughter, Charlotte, sparkles like a diamond in her all-too-appropriate white dress, everything about her screamingsuitable.

Lee’s next turn is too sharp, and I lose my counting rhythm completely. The crowd seems to press closer, the music grows louder, and the lights brighten. His usual steady presence feels like static electricity—unpredictable and dangerous.

“Another drink,” he says as the waltz ends, already pulling away. “Need another drink.”

“You don’t.” I grab his sleeve, silk catching on expensive wool. “You need air. We both need air.”

“Can’t.” His laugh is hollow. “Mother’s watching. Waiting for me to fuck up.”

A server appears with fresh drinks, and Lee grabs two. Katherine Sterling’s voice carries across the space: “The Henderson girl would make such a lovely addition to the family.”

The glasses in Lee’s hands shake.

“Bathroom,” I manage to get out as the walls around us start to close in. “I need …”

“Okay. Yes.” He looks around wildly like he’s forgotten the careful map he made me memorize. “It’s … wait …”

“Through the south doors,” his mother supplies, once again appearing beside us. “Do let me show you, dear. Lee, darling, Charlotte was just asking about your new apartment …”

The mask Lee wears so well slips, and I catch a glimpse of horror as it slowly forms on his face moments before his mother separates us. It takes but a second for him to get swept away, and without a second thought, he charges off toward the glittering Charlotte. I watch as he drops one of the glasses on a tray, now empty, and my confidence in him and us dwindles.

The turbulent pit of despair becomes deeper and deeper the longer I stand there. The bathroom isn’t what I need. What I need is Lee—myLee, not this scattered, frantic version who can’t remember how many steps there are to the quiet room or how many times to sanitize his hands before touching me.

Those are small things, stupid things really. What I want is Lee to be normal, himself. Not the masked version, inhaling liquor to make it through the night.

This is wrong. All wrong. My gloves are too tight, the silk suddenly suffocating instead of luxurious. The room grows smaller, conversations blending into white noise, making my head spin. I spot the balcony doors past the dancing couples.

Fresh air. Quiet.Space to breathe and count and try to find my center again.

“Just a moment,” Lee says from somewhere behind me. “Salem, wait?—”

I won’t wait. I can’t.I’m already moving, already counting steps in my head, already trying to remember our safety protocols. The last thing I see before slipping through the doors is Lee taking another sip of his drink, his perfect posture crumpling as Charlotte Henderson places her hand on his arm.

---