Page 86 of The Misfit

“You’re shivering,” Salem says softly, and I realize she’s right. The adrenaline that carried me here is wearing off, leaving me cold and wet and absolutely terrified of what comes next.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” She moves toward the towels, latex gloves squeaking slightly. “You need dry clothes before you get sick. And we need to clean up this water before?—”

“Salem.” Her name comes out rougher than intended. “Please don’t … don’t count or clean or organize right now. I can’t …”

“What can’t you do?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

Tell you I’m falling for you. Tell you none of this is fake anymore. Tell you I’m terrified of ruining everything.

Instead, I say, “Follow your lead.”

Something shifts in her expression. She grabs a towel and approaches me like she’s unsure of my next move. Offering it to me, she explains, “Upstairs. Noah probably has something that will fit you.”

The intimacy of that suggestion hits me hard. Going upstairs. To her space. To her carefully ordered world that I’ve somehow become part of.

“Lee?” Her voice brings me back. “Come on. You’re dripping.”

“Right.” I take the towel, our fingers brushing through latex. “Lead the way.”

She turns toward the stairs, and I follow, counting steps without meaning to. Both of us pretending this is normal. Both of us knowing nothing will ever be normal again.

Salem’s room is exactly like her—perfectly ordered chaos that somehow makes sense. Everything is aligned at right angles, everything counted and measured and precise. Except…

My hoodie, the one she borrowed last week when it rained, lies across her desk chair. It’s folded neatly, but it’s there. Present. Like I belong here.

“Noah’s room is across the hall. Just wait here, and I’ll be back in a second,” she says quietly, but I can’t stop looking around her space now that I’m in it. At the photos of us tucked into her mirror frame. I had to wipe the entire inside of an arcade photo booth down with an entire pack of sanitizing wipes to get her into it, but it was worth it for the strip of goofy pictures we got as a result. And there’s one of us that Bel took when she came to the coffee shop one day. She must have given it to Salem at some point. My handwriting on Post-it Notes stuck to her textbooks—little counting games I made up to help her study.

I wonder if Noah told her about my questioning, my need to understand her better, and the desire I feel to help her. Not because this is fake, but because I really fucking want to help her. I care way too much about this girl, and I want her. Want her at my side. Want her in every single way that I really don’t deserve. Salem deserves better, more than some watered-down trust fund brat who’s rebelling against his parents’ wishes.

“You kept them.” I touch one note gently. “The study guides.”

She busies herself looking through Noah’s drawer for clothes, the door open, but I see the flush creeping up her neck. The sound of running water from the bathroom gives us a little privacy. At least for a moment. “They help. The patterns you create make sense.”

Like you make sense, I want to say. Like everything makes sense when I’m with you.

More evidence of my presence in her life catches my eye. A coffee cup from our shop, cleaned precisely three times I’m sure, sits on her desk. The silk gloves from the gala are laid out in perfect parallel lines.

“These should fit.” Her voice pulls me back. She holds out sweatpants and a T-shirt, both items folded. “They’re clean. He doesn’t wash them three times of course …”

“Salem,” I start, but she’s already backing toward the door.

“You can change in here, and I’ll clean up the water downstairs.”

“Wait.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don’t … don’t run again. Please.”

She freezes, one hand on the doorknob. I see her counting breaths, see her measuring the space between us, see her trying to maintain control when everything feels out of control.

“I’m not running.” But her voice shakes. “I’m being practical. The water needs to be cleaned up. You need dry clothes. Everything needs to be in order.”

“No.” I step closer, still dripping. “Everything doesn’t need to be in order. Everything doesn’t need to be perfect. Everything doesn’t need to be counted or cleaned or controlled.”

“Lee—”

“Look at this room.” I gesture around us. “Look at how much of me is already here. In your space. In your patterns. In your life.”

Her latex gloves squeak as she clenches her hands. “That’s different.”

---