Page 90 of The Misfit

Me:Go do your work. I’m okay.

Me:Really.

Me:Getting better every day.

The truth of that settles in my chest like sunshine. I am getting better. Still wearing gloves, still counting things, still measuring spaces—but better. Stronger. More confident.

My tea is at the perfect temperature when I take a sip. The table is clean. I only wiped it twice today instead of three times. The morning feels full of possibility instead of threat.

For once, I’m not counting or measuring the distance between myself and other customers. For once, I’m just … existing.

And it feels like victory.

“Well, if it isn’t the counting queen herself.”

My peaceful morning shatters at the sound of Marcus’s voice. He slides into the chair across from me uninvited, and his presence immediately disrupts my space.

“Please leave.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Progress.

“Aw, come on.” His smile is all teeth, no warmth. “Can’t I check in on my old friend? See how things are going with Sterling?”

My grip on the cup tightens. Don’t count. Don’t let him see you count. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“I saw you at the gala,” he continues, leaning forward. “All dressed up in silk gloves, pretending to be something you’re not. Bet Sterling’s family loved that little performance. Almost as good as the one you gave freshman year.”

The memory lands like a punch to the gut. Freshman year.Chelsea.

“Don’t,” I whisper, the panic rising.

“You know what’s funny?” Marcus drums his fingers on the table, the rhythm making my skin crawl. “Chelsea used to defend you. Used to say you just needed time, needed understanding. Right up until that night.”

My vision blurs as my gaze darts around, desperate to find something I can use to count. The sugar packets. Ceiling tiles. Anything to stay present.

“At least Chelsea knew when to quit,” he says, the words softer. Crueler. “Knew when to stop pretending she could fix you.”

The double meaning in his words makes me sick. Bile climbs up my throat. Chelsea letting go. Chelsea falling.

“You’re looking a little pale there, Salem.” His laughter is quiet, meant just for me. “Starting to count things in your head? Starting to feel that itch to clean everything? Starting to remember how it felt to see your best friend?—”

“Stop.” My voice cracks. “Please … just … stop.”

“Why? Because you’re better now? Because Lee Sterling’s magic dick somehow cured you?” He leans forward, his presence invading my space. “We both know what really happened that night. We both know something in you cracked that night under the guilt, and now you’re paying for it with your counting and your stupid gloves.”

The walls start to close in around me. The world spins, and I’m so close to losing my footing. So close to falling into the abyss. I need to count. Need to clean. Need to?—

“I love it,” Marcus continues, watching me unravel with obvious satisfaction. “Look at you, replacing one saving grace with another. First, Chelsea trying to fix you, now Lee. Wonder how long until he figures out you aren’t fixable? Wonder if he’ll let go, too?”

The cup trembles in my hands. Three shakes. Six ripples in the tea. Nine ceiling tiles visible from this angle.

“I actually feel bad for Sterling,” Marcus muses. “He has no idea the kind of crazy he’s trying to save. No idea what really happened the night Chelsea died.”

My world narrows to numbers and patterns, all in a desperate attempt to maintain control. Until a different voice, softer but firmer cuts through the chaos.

“Marcus.”

I blink, and I’m not sure I really believe what I’m seeing. Katherine Sterling stands at our table, peering down her nose at us. The shock is enough to draw me back to the present, curb the anxiety clawing through me.

“Marcus.” Katherine Sterling’s voice is a steel blade wrapped in silk. “I believe you’re making Miss Masters uncomfortable.”

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