The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

5. Salem

FIVE

salem

One week later, I find myself between a rock and a hard spot. I should’ve known Bel would make good on her word of hanging out again. I guess I had assumed she only said it to be nice. Surprise. She wasn’t lying.

That’s why I’ve been staring at her text for the past twenty-three minutes, riding an endless roller coaster of emotions. I don’t know if I’m ready to do this again.

My fingers tap against my desk, one, two, three, pause, repeat . The soothing motion gives me something to focus on besides the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

Bel: Small get-together at my place tonight. Eight p.m. Just a few friends. I would love to see you there.

Just a few friends. That could mean anything. Ten people? Twenty? What constitutes “small” to someone like Bel? Does she even have fewer than ten friends? My breath hitches, and I start gathering all the supplies I’ll need before I can talk myself out of going.

I’ve already talked myself out of it three times.

Clean gloves —three pairs, neatly sealed in individual ziplock bags.

Travel-size hand sanitizer —two bottles, unopened.

Wet wipes —one package, fresh.

Phone —fully charged.

Keys —checked three times they’re actually in my bag.

“Salem?” Noah’s voice carries through my bedroom door, followed by his signature three-knock pattern, something he started doing after I came home from the hospital. “Mom wants to know if you’re eating dinner with us?”

I’m not really hungry, but it’s probably a good idea to eat something since I know my nerves will be too shot to eat at the party.

“Yeah, just … give me a minute.”

“Are you okay in there?” The door is partially open so of course my seventeen-year-old brother, Noah, peers in, all protective concern wrapped in a hockey player’s frame. His eyes catch on my party preparation spread.

Lifting a brow, he asks, “Going somewhere?”

“Yes. I think. I haven’t officially decided yet.” I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting my sweater until it hangs exactly right. The soft gray material is clean and fresh from the package. I ordered three of the same ones last week, making it much easier to decide what to wear. “Bel invited me to her place. Just a small thing. I want to go, but I also don’t, so the verdict is still out on whether I’m actually going somewhere or not.”

Noah’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bel Thompson?”

“Yes, and before you start—I know. I’m probably going to hate it. But Dr. Martinez says exposure is important, and Mom’s been worried I’m not being social enough and?—”

“Hey.” Noah cuts me off mid-ramble, his gaze softening. “There’s no need to justify what you’re doing. I’ll support you no matter what, so long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal or candy corn.”

“What if I’m doing illegal stuff with candy corn?” I wiggle my eyebrows playfully.

Noah smirks. “Then I have no idea who you are. And I disavow any knowledge of you as my sibling.”

“Rude.” I grin back at him.

“Oh, stop. You know I’m always here for you. Just … text me if you need an escape plan, okay?”

The anxiety I was feeling before Noah entered the room has disappeared. I can do this. I can be normal.

“I know, I know. All it takes is one message, and you’ll swoop in with some tragic story about our pet chipmunk dying.” I pause and press my lips together. “And I love you for that, but I have to try, have to make an effort. I’m terrified, but I’m even more frightened of being this way for the rest of my life.”

“Children!” Mom’s voice floats up the stairs. “Dinner’s getting cold!”

“Coming!” Noah shouts back, then gives me a pointed look. “Got it. You’re going to try to conquer your fears. Now what about Mom? Do you want to deal with her excited hovering or do you want me to tell her?”

I tip my head back and groan.

“I take that as my cue to tell her.” Noah laughs.

Looking back at him, I nod. “Yes, you do the dirty work. I’ll be down in a minute. Just need to …”

“Check everything three times?” His smile is gentle. “Take your time. I’ll save you from Dad’s meatloaf and any lingering questions.”

Noah is a true hero. The best brother ever.

After he leaves, I find myself staring at my reflection again. My chest is hollow as I force a ragged breath into my lungs. The girl staring back at me is half the person she used to be, her perfect edges now cracked with sharp, jagged pieces sticking out, threatening to slice anyone who might get too close. Tears sting the back of my eyes. Sometimes I wish I was still the girl I used to be—carefree, bright, open—but then I remember that night and the reason that girl is dead and buried. Maybe this is what I deserve.

No. That’s wrong. I’m more than this debilitating disease.

So as much as the annoying voice in the back of my mind tells me to stay home, to hide under the blankets with a book, to stay in my comfortable bubble, I remember my therapist’s words. “There is no room for comfort when you’re trying to grow.”

“You can do this.” I hype myself up. “It’s just a party. No, a get-together.” I pretend that minimizing is helping.

Just a party. I snort in response to my own thoughts. If it were as easy as being just a party, I would have already attended a dozen or more. The last time I went to a party, I hid in the pantry almost the entire time. My phone buzzes, and Bel’s name flashes across the notification screen with an incoming text.

Before I can check it, I hear my mother’s delighted exclamation from downstairs.

“Salem’s going to a party? Another one? That’s so exciting!!”

I close my eyes and count to three. You’d think she’d be like other parents with warnings about drinking and drugs. But nope. I suppose at twenty-two, still at home, not done with college, she is hoping for normal as much as I am. After a few more seconds of self-pity, I check my supplies again for safe measure and then head downstairs to face my family’s well-meaning but overwhelming support. Sometimes I think their careful optimism is harder to handle than if they just treated me like I was broken.

I grab my phone and check the new message from Bel.

Bel : you coming?

It’s now or never. Before I can think better of it, I quickly type out a response and hit send.

Me: Will be leaving shortly!

No backing out now, not without making myself look bad.

Dinner is a quick affair, and thankfully, neither my mother nor father dig deeper into my plans for the evening. The fact I’m leaving the house is enough for my mother. Her excitement bubbles out of her, and I have to remind myself that she’s merely happy to see me taking the therapist’s advice.

I take a nibble here and there, but my anxiety makes it difficult to eat much more.

When I realize I’m only prolonging the inevitable by shoving the food around my plate with a fork, I excuse myself from dinner.

“Have fun!” my mother exclaims with a smile from her spot at the dinner table.

“If you need anything, let me know,” Noah adds before shoveling a spoonful of potatoes into his piehole. I give them a weak smile and head for the door. My bag has been packed and ready since I came downstairs. I snatch it up, and as soon as I step out onto the porch, I suck a ragged breath into my lungs. They burn as if I’ve deprived them of air, and I wonder if I had been unintentionally holding my breath.

Makes sense I would be trying to kill myself.

With my gloved hand remaining on the door handle, I use my touch to ground myself and let the cool air filter into my lungs. The brain is an amazing thing, but it’s also dangerous. A maze you can get lost in if you aren’t careful. In my mind, I envision a beach, then the ocean. The waves wash away pieces of my unease as they crest the beach.

You can do this, Salem.

I give myself one final pep talk before I let go of the handle and descend the stairs. I climb into the car I share with Noah, an old Honda Accord. Old or not, Betsy is one hundred percent trustworthy. I start the engine and type the address Bel gave me into the map app on my phone.

It’s not too late to stay home.

I squish the negative thought and smile to myself when I put the car in reverse. I’m doing this. I check the time when I arrive and park outside the luxury condo building. I bet Drew Marshall owns this place. I won’t lie; I expected another raging party at The Mill. Not this. I stare at the fifth-floor windows, where warm light spills onto the balcony.

Somehow, this seems worse than a Mill party. There are no dark corners to hide in, no escape routes to memorize, and no way to blend into a crowd because hopefully, there will be no crowd. Just an intimate gathering in an enclosed space five floors up.

I can see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows—maybe fifteen people total, arranged in intimate clusters throughout what must be a massive living room.

Real conversations. Real interactions. My personal hell.

“You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes,” I mutter, hands clenching the wheel. The nitrile of my gloves squeaks with the motion, and I focus on that sound instead of my own racing heartbeat. Doom and dread encompass me at once.

I can’t do this.

Through the window, I watch Bel laugh at something, her head thrown back, totally at ease in her shared home with Drew. A thorn of jealousy pricks my insides, and the thought appears before I can stop it.

I can only imagine what it’s like to simply exist. To not have to count breaths, or worry who might touch you or stare at you like a weirdo because you’re wearing gloves. The judgment and cruelty. I used to be like that. Maybe it feels all the worse for having had it and lost it.

I shake the jealous thought away, shame filling its place. It’s not Bel’s fault I’m this way, and I have no real reason to be envious of her. She’s only ever been caring and kind, even when others weren’t. I return to counting the balconies even though I’ve counted them half a dozen times now. My phone buzzes three times, and it startles me.

Probably Bel, wondering when I’m going to show up. Never at this rate.

With trembling fingers, I grab my phone and skim through the messages.

Noah: You okay? Been a while since you left.

Noah: Need that escape plan? Blink three times if you’re in danger.

I smile despite myself and type out a response.

Me: Still in the car. Counting things.

Noah: Want me to call with an emergency?

All I can do is shake my head.

Me: You’re supposed to encourage me, not enable me. I’m trying to be brave.

Bubbles appear on the screen while he’s responding.

Noah: You’re already brave, dumbass.

Noah: But seriously. One text and I’ll fake appendicitis.

A tap on my passenger window makes me jump so hard I bang my knee on the steering wheel. Motherfucker. I clutch at my leg and look up to find Bel standing there, concern etched into her features. How long has she been standing there? Oh god. I hope not long.

She points down, gesturing for me to lower the window. I lower it to exactly three inches. Not enough for anything to get in. Not enough for anyone to reach through.

“Sorry if I scared you. I have been watching for your car from upstairs. After a while, I got worried you wouldn’t come up since you’ve been parked here for a bit.” Her soft voice holds no hint of judgment.

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I’m being weird. I should just go?—”

“Salem.” She cuts me off gently. “No. Take your time. There is no rush. I know this is a lot for you. Just know that whenever you’re ready to come up, there’s a sealed bottle of water and a clean spot saved for you on the couch. Drew made sure everything was sanitized.”

The walls of anxiety that I’ve spent so long building up to protect myself crack at her confession. Her kindness is far more than I expected.

“Three more minutes,” I whisper.

She nods like this is completely normal. “Three more minutes. I’ll meet you at the door. Then we can walk up together, okay?”

I nod my head absently and watch as she walks back toward the building. I count her steps all the way to the door.

Twenty-seven .

The same number of therapy appointments I’ve had this year.

Maybe it’s a sign.

My phone buzzes again.

Noah : You got this, Sis.

I don’t know if that’s true, but I suck up his belief like a dry sponge. Then I take a deep breath, check my gloves, and count to three.

Time to be brave.

My limbs are numb, my stomach a trembling mess as I slip from the safety of my car. Bel smiles at me from the entrance, and I do my best to return the smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a grimace. Staring at the asphalt, I count each step I take until I reach her. She guides me through a clean, elegant entrance and directly to an elevator.

“You’re doing great,” Bel praises, her voice soft.

“Thank you. For saying that. And inviting me,” I reply with a smile.

She has no idea how much encouragement her words give me right now. I can do this. All I have to do is try. The elevator dings, and the doors open.

“Of course. Once a friend, always a friend.”

We step inside together, and a moment later, the doors slide closed. Bel types a code into the keypad, and we start moving. Silence surrounds us, minus the thundering beat of my heart, which I fear is so loud Bel can hear it.

I adjust my gloves, the latex squeaking. When the elevator stops, the doors open directly into Drew and Bel’s enclosed foyer. My breath catches in my throat as I take in all the gleaming marble and modern art. I step out of the elevator, and my boots make no sound as I walk across the polished floor. Bel waits by the sleek double doors, her smile warm and genuine.

“Ready?” she asks, and I appreciate that she doesn’t reach for me or try to hurry me along.

Am I ready? No . If it was up to my anxiety, I’d never be ready, but I have to be. It’s time to move on. It’s time I find myself again.

“How many people exactly?”

“Twelve,” she replies immediately, like she knew I’d need the precise number. “Only people you know. No strangers.”

My throat tightens, and I nod.

The doors open, and we step into a corridor leading to one door at the end of the hall. I follow her in, cataloging everything at once—exits (three: balcony, main door, service entrance), people (twelve, just like she said), surfaces I’ll need to avoid (too many to count). The space is massive, all open concept and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city lights. Beautiful, but nowhere to hide.

“Drew got everyone’s favorite drinks,” Bel exclaims. “Yours is still sealed—raspberry La Croix, right?” I fell off the face of the earth for two years, yet somehow, she managed to remember my favorite drink. I don’t even know what to say. Not that she waits for me to respond.

She points across the room. “There’s a spot by the window that no one’s touched. We put out clean throws just for you.”

I blink hard against the sudden rush of tears. No one’s been this kind to me since … My memory shifts to that night in the pantry, how Lee blocked the door to keep others from seeing me. I nod, fearing tears might break free if I speak.

Conversations pause as we enter farther, and even though I don’t pay them any attention, I can see heads turning in our direction. I feel each gaze like a physical touch, making my skin crawl under my gloves. There’s a flurry of whispers, and someone laughs—not unkindly, but still. Drew instantly appears at Bel’s side, like he’s an extension of her.

I assess him, knowing full well the kind of guy he is. He’s dressed casually in designer jeans and a blue Henley that looks incredibly soft.

“Salem.” He nods, keeping his distance. “Good to see you.”

I manage a weak smile, and because I don’t know what to say, I start to count.

Three steps to the couch. Two people by the kitchen island. One sealed La Croix waiting on a clean coaster.

“Lee’s running late,” Bel announces, and I hate how my pulse jumps, and the way my body reacts to his name. “But he texted that he’s on his way.”

“I’m not—” I start, but then Marcus Chen’s terrible voice grates across my nerves.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Masters. Thought crowds made you crazy.”

The room falls silent.

One, two, three breaths.

Don’t react.

Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s got you right where he wants you.

A part of me twists with empathy, knowing that Marcus is the way he is because he can’t go crazy. Not like me. He has to find a way to deal with the poison in his veins, and the only way to do that is to spit it at other people.

As if sensing the direction this is going, Drew steps in. “If you’re going to be an asshole, Chen, you can leave. When you asked to come, I didn’t realize you were only attending to be a dick.”

Bel steps between them, leaving both men to tower over her, but she doesn’t seem to care. “After what happened in the library, I wouldn’t have invited you at all. Now, if you want to stay, you will be kind.”

I stare down at my gloved hands, refusing to look up because I know all I’ll see reflecting back at me is pity. Bel’s hand hovers near mine—not touching, just offering support—and somehow that makes it bearable.

Just breathe. Just stay. Just prove them wrong.

Three more hours.

Two more glove changes.

One more chance to be normal.

I can do this.

Marcus mutters something under his breath and marches away, disappearing into the darkness of the hall.

The next hour is an exercise in controlled panic.

I perch on the designated “clean” area of the sectional, watching everyone as they move through each social interaction like it’s as easy as breathing. Like it’s basic nature. It makes me envious that they aren’t forced to think about every surface, breath, and potential point of contact. I wish I could be like that, like them. Normal.

I try my best not to dwell on the negative and consider what my future could be like if I continue to be more social and expose myself to my fears. Anything could happen. Maybe I won’t need to wear gloves someday? As the minutes tick by, I become more and more comfortable, but I know I’ll never fully let my guard down. No matter where I go or who I’m with, I manage to feel like a museum exhibit.

The front door bursts open, and Lee saunters in. It’s stupid the way my body reacts to his mere presence, this strange warmth unfurling in my gut.

Lee Sterling is my opposite in every way, and I have no right to feel this strange warmth in his presence. If anything, I should feel anxiety, or at least irritation, but not warmth. Yeah, something is very wrong with me.

“Sorry I’m late!” he announces, all windswept hair and explosive energy. “It’s always something.”

It’s incredible how quickly the atmosphere changes. The air becomes electrically charged, a current of energy rippling through me. I’ve noticed Lee has that effect on people—drawing attention like gravity, making everyone else orbit around him like he’s Earth and we’re his moons. I try to look away, but my gaze gravitates back to him.

He’s wearing ripped black jeans and a vintage T-shirt. Simple but expressive. It’s almost annoying how carefree he is. The way he oozes confidence and commands the space like it belongs to him.

One glimpse at his face and I’m taken back to that dark pantry, where he showed me a side of him I doubt anyone else in this room has seen or even knows exists. The person he projects to this room is nothing like that man I met.

Right now, he’s loud, bright, happy…a social butterfly. Offering casual hugs, shoulder clasps, and quick kisses on the cheeks. It’s all an act. I can’t imagine how exhausting that must be. To pretend to be something you’re not.

Looking up, he finds my eyes, and recognition filters into his expression. The mask slips away, just for a second, and I see a flash of the boy from the pantry. Changing course mid-conversation, he heads toward me with purpose in his stride.

Oh god. My heart hammers against my ribs—one, two, three beats of panic.

“Don’t,” I whisper, but he’s already too close.

I’m on the fringes of panic, knowing he’ll enter my careful bubble of space and send me into a spiral. I’m not sure why, but he pauses, stopping right where he stands. The air ripples around us like waves lapping against the shore.

He makes no attempt to touch, crowd, or push past my barriers.

“Hey, Pantry Girl.” His soft voice is nothing like his loud entrance. “Saved me a seat?”

I blink at the clean couch section beside me. “Umm …”

His smile is different up close. Realer. Brighter. “Mind if I join you? Promise to keep my germs to myself.”

And just like that, my careful count of breaths falters. “I …” I start, but Marcus’s voice cuts through again.

“Careful, Sterling. She might sanitize you to death.”

Lee’s expression darkens. I know he’s going to say something and stick up for me just like Bel did. I don’t want him to fight my battles. I don’t want anyone to do anything for me. Without thinking it through, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Better than catching whatever STD you’re carrying, Chen.”

Did I just say that?

The words hang in the air, and then Lee throws his head back and laughs—the sound warm, soothing. Around us, conversations resume, and Marcus sulks away without another word. It’s weird, but that tiny bit of laughter eases the tension in my chest, and when I take another breath, I’m lighter, calmer.

“Pantry Girl’s got teeth.” Lee’s smile grows while settling beside me—close but not touching. “Feisty. I like it.”

Pantry Girl? I should tell him to stop calling me that. Maybe tell him my real name.

No, he definitely already knows it .

Everyone knows it. At this rate, the smartest thing I could do was to vacate to another area of the room. Stick to my rules about interaction, distance, and safety. I think all these things, but I already know I have no intention of doing them.

Instead, I find myself sitting there smiling like a fool.

Lee’s presence carries both a calming and terrifying effect on my nervous system. He doesn’t fidget or try to close the careful gap between us. He just exists in the space like he belongs there. Like sitting quietly with the campus freak is totally normal for the popular playboy who could be talking to any girl, or boy, he wants right now.

“Thirsty?” he asks, gesturing to my still sealed La Croix.

“I …” The word sticks in my throat as I watch someone across the room sneeze into their hand. One, two, three seconds of pure horror.

Lee follows my gaze and stands smoothly. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

I watch him walk across the room, and without meaning to, I start counting his steps. He stops at the fancy built-in fridge, peers inside, and pulls out a sealed water bottle. My breath catches in my throat when he grabs a paper towel and wipes it down before returning.

“Still sealed.” He smiles, presenting it with a flourish but maintaining that careful distance. “And sanitized because I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re something,” I mutter but accept the bottle. Gentleman? I don’t know about that. Our fingers don’t touch, but an electric current ripples between us, zinging across my skin.

“Oh, I’m definitely something.” His tone is playful. He plops back down on the couch and turns to face me. “Care to find out more?”

The line is pure Lee Sterling—flirty, provocative, and designed to charm. It would work if I were anyone else, and it still does, kinda, but it doesn’t stop me from seeing the dark waters beneath. From seeing the truth.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, adjusting the bottle until it sits perfectly aligned with the coaster’s edge.

“Do what?”

“This.” I gesture back and forth between us. “Pretend. Play the nice guy, the one who keeps a safe distance. I don’t want your …” The muscles in my throat constrict as I force myself to speak. “Pity.”

His playful expression vanishes. “Pity?”

“I know what people say about me. I know why they …” My voice cracks, and all the insecurities I carry bleed through. “Please … just … don’t pretend. Don’t act like you care if you really don’t. I promise I’d rather have your honesty than your pity.”

“Salem.” He knows my name. That’s not the jarring part, though. It’s the way he says it, with authority and control, that makes me look up. His intense gaze is focused entirely on me. “Do I look like a guy who does anything he doesn’t want to do?”

Stupidly, I feel compelled to trust him, trust that his intentions are pure, but I’ve allowed myself to be led blindly by putting my trust in others, and in the end, the only one who got hurt was me.

“I don’t know who you are, so I can’t really say. What I do know is that you like to play games,” I snap, my anxiety making the words come out harsher than intended. “And while it might be cliché, everyone knows guys like you find it fun to mess with the crazy girl just to see what happens.”

“Stop.” His voice is soft but firm.

Lifting his hand, he reaches for me, and instinct makes me flinch because anyone touching me sends my nervous system into shutdown mode. Except him, I consider, thinking back to the night in the pantry. Or maybe the alcohol helped lessen the anxiety? Seeing my building reaction, he freezes, then slowly lowers his hand.

“Guys like me?” He scoffs. “Not all of us are assholes. Have I given you any reason to think I’m some douchebag who plans to hurt you?”

Shit. Did I offend him?

“Like I said, I don’t know you, and I don’t want to pass judgment, either. That would be unfair, but I hear what’s said about you. Rumors spread quickly, you know that. I don’t believe even half of what I hear, but when you confirm many of the things yourself, it’s hard not to believe,” I whisper. “Honestly, it just seems wrong of you to be sitting here, talking to the weird girl when you could be somewhere else.”

“What’s your point? It’s my choice to sit here.” His tone is all matter-of-fact. “I don’t take orders from anyone, and sitting with you has nothing to do with pity. Besides, what you said isn’t true. I know some things about you, Salem Masters. ” He shakes his head. “You aren’t as invisible as you try to be. Have you ever thought that maybe I like that you’re different? That you see through my bullshit? Maybe I’m tired of dancing and flirting and being Lee fucking Sterling all the time.” My emotions hook onto a certain rawness laced into his words.

He looks away as if to hide his feelings, and when he looks back, he has this sad smile. “I know you want to help people, heal them. I know you like one coffee shop in town, only one. And I know you’ve got a secret that is tearing you up physically and mentally.”

I catch another glimpse of that shattered man, the one who’s perfected being the person everyone else wants him to be. He’s spent so much time pretending to be someone he’s not that he’s lost sight of who he is and what he wants.

My heart aches at the reminder because that was me before I lost it. I’m still that broken girl now, wishing for normal but no longer capable of pretending to be something she isn’t. Instead, I’m the example of what happens when you pretend for too long.

Before I can fall down that hole, I change the subject.

“Have you been following me?”

His dark gaze narrows, and his brown hair falls over his brow. “Just some light social media stalking.”

“I’m hardly ever on social media, so I doubt you got all that information from Facebook or Instagram.”

He shrugs. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be, and I’ve taken a special interest in you, Pantry Girl.”

I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “Why? There’s nothing special about me.”

“Wrong. There’s something so special about you that you make me want to figure you out, and that’s never happened before.”

Nope. I don’t want to be the object of some rich boy’s fascination. I want to find my way back to being who I used to be.

“I’m not a trophy or a prize to be won and claimed. Befriending the weirdo isn’t a requirement for being nice. You can be nice and not pretend to give a shit about me or what I’m going through.” I know I’m coming off bitchy, but I can’t let his fascination impact me, and it will.

Instead of pulling away or reacting with anger, he smiles. It shocks the hell out of me.

“And this right here is why I’m interested in you. You don’t give a fuck who I am. You aren’t trying to sleep with me, and you’re not pretending to be my friend to climb the social ladder.” He leans in closer, and for some reason, I can’t look away, move away, and can hardly breathe as his clean soap scent surrounds me. “In that pantry was the first time in forever I felt seen. I didn’t have to pretend. I was myself, and you witnessed the mask falling away. You saw me, really saw me, and it made me think. Consider …”

The seriousness of this conversation starts to sink in, and I’m seconds away from telling him I need to leave, but I pause when he starts to speak again.

“We share a common problem. You want to be accepted by your peers, and I need the same thing, but for an entirely different reason.”

Is he propositioning me?

I gulp and lick my suddenly dry lips. “I think I should go.”

Even as I say the words, I can’t seem to get my legs to move. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. “Wait, at least let me finish.”

I give him a small nod, and he continues. “I know you’re working on being normal, anyone can see that, but … wouldn’t it look a whole lot more convincing if you were dating, say… someone who can draw attention away from the fact you’re trying so hard? We’re both looking to fit in. I need someone to make my family think I’m doing that.”

Is he asking me out? Or something else? His words are light—deliberately so—but beneath them runs a current of pain that shines as bright as day. “What … what do you mean? Are you saying we should date? If so, I can’t do that.”

Another dip closer, so close his mouth is inches from mine. The germs … except all I can smell is the peppermint on his breath and the soap on his skin, and the noise in my head just stops for a split second. My brain is quiet, and I almost don’t know what to do. So I listen.

“Why not? You’re single, and so am I. Obviously, it wouldn’t be real, but we both have a dilemma we could use the other person to help. Think about it, Salem. It’ll help you with that sense of being normal.”

“I don’t …” My lips tremble as I try to put together the rest of my response. No. There is no way this would ever work, and even if I have his help, there is no way in hell I could pretend in front of his family. The sheer idea of putting my trust in a man like Lee… I might as well admit myself to the mental hospital again.

“There’s no need to tell me the answer now. Think about it. And maybe Marcus and his asshole friends will leave you alone once they discover you have my protection.”

Perhaps, but I don’t need a pity fake boyfriend, which is kind of what his offer feels like, even if he would be getting something in return. All of these different ideas, thoughts, options, plans… make my anxiety climb higher and higher.

Lee is over the top, a panic attack waiting to happen.

“All I want to do is help you. That’s it. Nothing else. Let me do something good for a change.” He speaks so casually, yet all I can see is the way his beautiful mouth forms each word. Someone across the room calls his name, breaking the spell holding us captive.

No. I can’t do this. Being around him, seeing his pain, mixed with a weird mirage of my own…it reminds me too much of her, Chelsea …of the past. It presses against wounds that aren’t fully healed, that may never be healed.

As interested as I am in Lee, I don’t belong here. Not with him, not at this party, and nowhere in his perfectly planned future. The options, the possibilities, they all echo around me, overwhelming me. I need to leave. I need to think.

“I have to go,” I blurt out, shoving myself off the couch and grabbing my bag in one swift movement. I know it’s rude of me. “I can’t … I should …”

“Salem, wait?—”

I don’t. I’m already moving, counting the steps to the door.

“Salem? What’s going on?” Bel’s concerned voice calls after me, but I continue forward. I don’t stop walking until I reach the elevator and punch the button.

Why do I keep trying? Keep putting myself through this?

No one wants the crazy girl.

No one chooses the broken pieces.

No one stays.

Even now, Lee doesn’t want me, not really. He wants me to pretend, to join him in his parade of masks. Which makes no sense since he said he wanted to stop wearing them.

The elevator takes exactly thirty seconds to arrive. I know because I count every single one, trying not to think about the fact that I left my backup gloves on Drew’s pristine coffee table. Trying not to think about Lee’s face when I ran. Trying not to think at all. My current gloves are contaminated from touching my car keys earlier.

I’ll need to change them before driving. Except …

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding just as I hear rapid footsteps behind me.

“Salem, wait!”

Lee’s voice carries around the foyer, and I glance back just in time to catch a glimpse of him running toward the elevator, something clear in his hand—my ziplock bag of clean gloves.

One second to decide …

Wait for him, face whatever he’s going to say, and deal with the mortification of him seeing me like this.

Or …

I step into the elevator and hit the lobby button. Just before the doors close, I see him skid to a stop, my gloves held out like some peace offering, his expression a mixture of concern and something else I can’t quite read.

“Fuck,” I whisper as the elevator descends. My hands are shaking in their contaminated gloves, and I have no backups. No safety net.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number: I have your gloves

Unknown number: Let me bring them down

Unknown number: Please

I stare at the messages until they blur, counting the floors as they tick by. How did he even get my number? Maybe Bel gave it to him.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Another buzz.

Lee?: At least let me know you’re okay

Two.

The latex squeaks as I clench my hands into fists. I should text him back and tell him I’m fine. I should thank him for remembering the gloves. I should …

My phone lights up again.

Noah: Everything okay?

Noah: Want me to come get you?

I type back a reply, my fingers trembling.

Me: Coming home. Need new gloves.

Noah: On it. Supply run to CVS?

Noah: I’ll have fresh ones waiting.

My brother. The only person who never makes me feel broken.

One.

The elevator chimes, and the doors open. I rush through the lobby, ignoring the doorman’s greeting and focusing on counting each step I take. The second elevator dings just as I’m about to slip out the door.

I don’t look back.

Can’t look back.

Even if I wanted to say yes to Lee’s offer, there’s no way it would work between us. Oakmount’s playboy and the town weirdo. No one would believe it. Some things are better left in dark pantries, hidden beneath a mask.