8. Salem
EIGHT
salem
The library’s corner table feels like a sanctuary. Tucked away near the emergency exit, it allows me to see everyone as they approach. My books are aligned at perfect angles, my laptop is precisely centered, and everything is in its proper place.
I feel good. This feels good.
Everything except my thoughts, which keep drifting to Lee. I feel guilty about standing him up the way I did. My phone sits beside my pens, the screen dark but somehow accusing. I’ve drafted seventeen different messages to him since this morning.
Sorry about yesterday.
Something came up.
I got overwhelmed.
Maybe we could ? —
Delete, delete, delete.
Nothing sounds right or seems good enough to explain how I panicked at the idea of meeting him, of discussing whatever he wanted to talk about, of facing those storm-gray eyes that see too much. Besides, what would I even say? Sorry I’m too broken to handle a simple coffee meeting? Sorry I spent an hour organizing my closet instead of showing up? Sorry I’m the kind of person who needs to count ceiling tiles before entering any room? My nitrile-covered fingers hover over the phone again, composing attempt eighteen.
Hi, so about yesterday ? —
Delete.
The textbooks in front of me offer safer territory. Physics doesn’t judge. Equations don’t care that I wear gloves or count things or measure spaces between people. Numbers make sense in a way people never will.
I say that, but deep down, I know Lee makes sense. He notices my patterns without commenting. He creates space around me without making it obvious. I’ll never understand how a person who is my complete opposite in every way can understand that chaos must be met with control in equal measure.
And that’s exactly why I can’t text him.
Can’t face him.
Can’t handle his proposal.
The scariest type of people are those who understand, who see through you when they look at you. I’ve learned that people who accept broken pieces usually end up cutting themselves on the sharp edges.
I talk myself out of messaging him again.
It would be better if I focused on physics.
Better to count equations instead of heartbeats.
Better to pretend yesterday never happened.
Even if guilt sits heavy in my chest with each deleted text.
One minute, I’m sitting there, and the world around me is quiet and safe. Then it all comes crashing down. The books scatter across the table without warning, several falling to the floor with thuds that echo through the quiet library. My careful arrangement shatters, pages bending, corners creasing, order dissolving into a mess.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I stammer automatically, surging to my feet even though I know my books weren’t hanging over the edge. I always check three times to ensure everything is properly placed. In the back of my mind, I latch onto the knowledge that this was deliberate. An attack on me.
Looking up, I find two guys standing far too close to my table—I recognize them. I’ve even seen them around campus a time or two. The taller one smirks at me and doesn’t even try to pretend it was an accident.
His friend moves to my other side, boxing me in against the wall.
“Nice gloves,” Tall Guy mocks, reaching for one of my fallen books. His boot deliberately steps on a page of another, creasing it. “Germaphobe or just crazy?”
Don’t engage. Don’t react. Don’t let them see how my hands shake with everything out of order more than their hulking presence.
“Please.” My voice comes out small and pathetic. “Stop. You can sit here. Just let me pack these up properly.”
“Properly?” The friend laughs, knocking another book off the table. “What’s proper about wearing gloves in eighty-degree weather? And did I hear you counting the fucking shelves?”
They’ve been watching me.
“Please … just leave me alone.” I hate how my voice trembles. Their bodies press in closer. My throat tightens. I can’t even grab my things and run because everything needs to be packed in the right order, the right way, the right pattern.
“Alone?” Tall Guy leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You mean how alone you already are in this secluded corner? I doubt anyone would hear your screams this far back. Probably wouldn’t even notice if something happened to the crazy girl with the gloves.”
Terror claws up my throat as they press closer, my brain finally reacting to them instead of the mess of my system.
Tendrils of fear wrap around my limbs. I need to run. I need to escape. I need to get away.
Please, someone notice. Make them stop.
“Get the fuck away from my girlfriend.”
A voice cuts through my panic like a blade, steady and dangerous.
That voice. I know it. Lee. I didn’t even hear him approach, but suddenly, he’s there, all controlled fury and protective stance.
“Girlfriend?” Tall Guy backs up immediately, recognition flashing in his eyes.
Everyone knows Lee Sterling. Everyone knows not to cross him. “We were just?—”
“Just leaving.” Lee steps between them and me, creating a barrier with his body. “Get the fuck out of here before I toss you out.”
They retreat quickly, too quickly, but I’m too overwhelmed to question it. My hands shake as I stoop to try to gather my scattered belongings, nitrile squeaking against paper as I attempt to restore order.
“Hey.” Lee’s voice gentles as he turns to me, all traces of threat gone. “Let me help. Tell me how you need things packed.”
The offer startles me enough to pause my frantic organizing. He’s not trying to do it for me, not trying to rush me, not trying to tell me it doesn’t matter. No. He’s asking how he can help me do it right.
“Textbooks first,” I manage to say, my throat tight and my eyes filled with tears I hadn’t realized were falling until just now. “Largest to smallest. Then notebooks by subject. Then?—”
“Then pens by length?” he finishes, already reaching for the correct book. “It fits the pattern.”
His careful movements are precise, following my patterns without my prompting. He maintains careful distance while still somehow making me feel protected. Slowly, order returns. Chaos recedes. My breathing steadies.
“Better?” he asks once everything is properly arranged. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t do anything except create space for me to feel safe again.
I nod, unable to voice how his understanding affects me. How his protection soothes me. How his attention to my needs makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it for more than just the help with my books.
His gentle smile is nothing like his usual campus bad-boy smirk. “Anytime, Pantry Girl.”
And somehow, that’s exactly what I need to hear right now.
“Breathe with me,” he says softly when my hands shake too badly to zip the bag. His fingers cover mine, and he guides my hand across the zipper. “In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. Just like that …” His soft voice is a whisper that shouldn’t be warming me from the inside out.
Not now. Not here.
The reminder of our first meeting shouldn’t comfort me, but it does. I follow his counting, letting his steady voice guide me back to my center.
I play the entire event back again in my mind.
“Those guys,” I start, then stop, unsure how to explain my fear. “They were watching …” My voice breaks as the fear rushes up at me all over again. What if he didn’t show up? What would they have done to me?
I’m used to people saying terrible things, even messing with my books, but no one has ever threatened me like that or made me feel like they would actually follow through.
“I know.” His voice carries an edge of danger.
“You called me your girlfriend …”
He shrugs. “It made them scatter, didn’t it?”
All I can do is nod. It makes sense. As soon as they put the pieces together, they ran. “If they’re smart, they won’t bother you again. Not while you’re with me.”
I see the message woven within his words. He’s offering me protection and safety. A shield against the chaos that threatens my perfectly put-together space.
“About yesterday,” I say, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t show up. Sometimes I get … overwhelmed and need to organize things. To make everything perfect before I can?—”
“Salem.” He cuts me off gently. “There’s no need to explain yourself to me. I get the need for a system. I understand them. I respect them.”
That honest, sincere response breaks me. It’s not the attack, not the fear, not the chaos but his quiet acceptance of my broken pieces. Lee is something else, in the way he pays attention to my needs and understands my carefully constructed walls.
I need to give him a chance and hear what he has to say.
“Coffee,” I blurt out, surprising us both. “Tomorrow? To discuss … to talk about … about what you suggested the other night?”
His smile is different now—softer, more real, nothing like his usual practiced charm. “Same time, same place? I promise to have everything sanitized before you arrive.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise, meaning it this time. “No closet emergencies, panic attacks, or standing you up.”
“Good.” He stands, offering to carry my bag without trying to take it without permission. “Let me walk you to your car? Just to be sure those guys are really gone.”
The word no sits on the tip of my tongue. It’s the right thing to say. It would help keep the distance between us. Unfortunately, I don’t have it in me to say no. When it comes to Lee, I find it difficult to see anything but the man in that dark pantry, exposing his own insecurity to me.
I find myself nodding, finding safety in his careful attention to my needs.
The walk to my car feels longer than usual, each step measured not just by my usual counting but by the weight of what I’m considering. Lee’s offer hovers between us—protection in exchange for pretense, safety in exchange for performance, control in exchange for fake dating the campus bad boy.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he says as we approach my car, his stride matching mine perfectly. Not too fast, not too close, just … present. “I can practically hear you counting the pros and cons in your head.”
“Is it really that obvious?” I try to smile, but my hands still tremble with residual fear while I dig for my car keys.
“To someone who pays attention? Yeah.” He leans against the car next to mine, carefully giving me space while maintaining a protective presence. “Most people don’t notice patterns like I do. Kind of a problem, really.”
His observation is both terrifying and refreshing, and while I want to run for cover, I also want him to know how understood, accepted, and normal he’s made me feel.
Except I’m not normal. Never will be.
My car’s leather seats will need to be wiped down three times when I get home. The books in my bag will need to be realigned perfectly on my desk.
“I hate this,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “Hate needing help. Being scared. Of not being able to just exist like everyone else.”
“Whoa, it’s okay.” Lee’s voice is gentle in a way I’ve never heard. “Everyone else is overrated. Their normal is bullshit. Their existence is just as messy as yours. The only difference is they’re better at pretending.”
“Like you?” My response is out before I can stop it.
His laugh holds no mockery, only understanding. “Exactly. Like me. From the outside looking in, you would never know how many issues I have because I’ve mastered pretending to be something I’m not.”
I study him in the afternoon light, seeing past his cultivated bad-boy image. Past the rebellion and charm and perfect facade.
Bel is right; there is more to Lee than what most think.
“Tomorrow, then,” I say, finally unlocking my car. “Coffee. Talk. Discussion of… arrangements.”
“Tomorrow.” He straightens but doesn’t move closer. “I’ll be there. With sanitizer and sealed cups.”
The fact that he remembers these details shouldn’t make me feel better about this decision.
But it does.
“Thank you,” I say as I slide into my car. “For today. For understanding. For …” I gesture vaguely, encompassing everything I can’t put into words.
His gentle smile is real. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for, right?”