Page 83 of The Misfit

He holds out his phone, showing me a picture I didn’t know existed. It’s from the coffee shop—me laughing at something while Lee watches, wearing an expression I’ve never seen before. Like he’s looking at something precious, something worth protecting.

“The guy bought five e-books about OCD and then two textbooks. He even asked about your therapist. He wanted to reach out to her and discuss ways to support you better.”

My heart stutters in my chest. No one outside of my own family has taken the effort to understand this debilitating mental health issue, yet some guy who has known me less than a year is more willing to understand me than some people I’ve known for the better part of my life.

“He’s not pretending,” Noah continues, “and neither are you.”

Nevertheless, the truth reflects back at me like a blinking red neon sign. “I can’t be what his family wants me to be.” It feels wrong to say those words, but I know they’re true. It’s so much more than doubt or fear laced between those words. Lee comes from a different world, a different universe for that matter.

“No,” Noah agrees. “But it’s not about what his family wants. It’s about what he wants, and you’re that person.”

I stare at the photo. At Lee’s face. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. He’s never seen me as this fragile human who’s going to shatter at any second. He’s always seen me as strong and determined, even when I felt like I wasn’t.

My phone buzzes again.

Bel:Please talk to him.

“He’s learning your patterns,” Noah tells me. “Not to fix you or change you, but so he can understand you better.”

“What if I ruin him?” The fear finally spills out. “What if I drag him down into my broken pieces, and he never gets out?”

Noah’s laugh is gentle. “Salem, he’s already chosen your broken pieces over their perfect lies. The question is, are you brave enough to choose him back?”

The storm rages outside while I stare at the photo of us, at the silk gloves he bought me, at all the evidence that none of this has been pretend for a very long time.

“I’m scared,” I whisper to the rain.

“Good,” Noah says. “That means it’s real.”

“Stop acting like you understand everything,” I snap, finally sitting up to face Noah. “You’re seventeen. You play hockey and date puck bunnies. What do you know about any of this?”

Noah’s easy smile falters. “I know my sister. I know when she’s running scared versus when she’s actually scared.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” he argues. “Running scared is what you did after Chelsea.”

The mention of Chelsea makes me flinch. “Don’t.”

“Why not? You were getting better. Even before Lee. But with him?—”

“I said don’t.” My voice cracks. “You have no idea what it’s like. Having to count everything, check everything, measure every single moment just to feel safe. Having to wear these stupid gloves because touching anything that might be contaminated makes me want to scream.”

Rain pounds against the windows as Noah absorbs my outburst. For a moment, he looks his age—uncertain, young, worried about his broken sister.

“You’re right,” he finally says. “I don’t understand, not like you. But I understand that Lee tries to. That he counts with you and checks things with you and makes you feel less alone in all of it.”

“He’s drunk half the time,” I counter weakly. “Reckless. Always fighting someone.”

“Yeah.” Noah runs a hand through his hair. “He’s kind of a mess. But he’s a mess who makes you smile. A mess who remembers exactly how many times to sanitize things. A mess who looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“Now you sound like a Hallmark movie.” My voice wavers.

“Better than your current horror movie of hiding in your room counting tiles.”

I throw a pillow at him, but he’s right. God help me, my baby brother is right.

“When did you get so annoyingly insightful?” I ask.

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