20. Lee
TWENTY
lee
Water drips steadily from my clothes, creating patterns on Salem’s pristine floor. I should move, step back, do something besides stare at her like a drowning man who’s finally found air. But I can’t seem to make my body cooperate.
“I’ll get more towels,” Noah announces from somewhere behind us. “And then I’m going to bed. Where I will be sleeping. With headphones on.”
Salem’s cheeks flush pink. “Noah?—”
“Nope. Don’t need to hear it. Just …” He appears briefly in my peripheral vision, dropping towels on a chair. “Try not to flood the house. Mom will notice.”
Then he’s gone, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving us alone with nothing but the sound of the storm and unspoken words between us.
“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.”
“Why?”
“Because …” She swallows hard. “Because it wasn’t supposed to be real. So it was okay if I kept little bits of you. If I never had to give them back.”
The truth of that hangs between us, heavy as the storm still raging outside.
“But it is real,” I whisper. “Isn’t it?”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t leave, either.
And I think that’s all the answer I need.
“The gala,” Salem finally says, still facing the door. “With Aries…”
“I lost control.” Shame burns in my gut, mixing with the cold from my wet clothes. “Seeing you with him, seeing you laugh, seeing you not counting steps or checking gloves or measuring space …”
“I was trying to be normal.” Her voice cracks. “Trying to be what your family wants, what you need. We had a deal, and I wanted to uphold my part of the agreement.”
“What?” I take a step closer, water dripping onto her pristine carpet. “What are you talking about?” She doesn’t answer, and that only notches up my anxiety further. “Salem, please look at me. Please explain.”
She turns slowly, her coffee-brown eyes searing into my soul. “At the gala. I heard them. Your mother and one of her friends. They were talking about how unsuitable I am. How Charlotte Henderson would be perfect for you. How I’m just a phase, a rebellion, a?—”
“Stop.” My hands clench at my sides to keep from reaching for her. Anger simmering in my veins. I hate that my terrible, dark world has leached over onto her. “Whatever they said?—”
“No, you stop.” She squares her shoulders. “What they said was true. I’m not normal, Lee. I can’t be normal. I want to be, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that the person I used to be isn’t the person I am today. I will never be that girl again, no matter how hard I try to put myself into that mold. I count everything. I clean everything. I wear gloves and measure spaces, and the thought of attending a public party induces anxiety. I’m not made for your world.”
“That is not my world. That is my parents’ world, and it’s bullshit.” The words explode out of me. “It’s fake smiles and even faker people pretending to be perfect. It’s suffocating and cruel, and everything I’m trying to escape. But I can’t do that without money, without taking the time to make sure I’m not stuck somewhere even worse.”
“So why are you trying to fit in somewhere you know you don’t belong? Where you don’t even want to be? Doing all the drinking … wearing the mask …?”
It’s my most singularly asked question, one that I consider almost daily. I don’t have to think about the answer.
“Because I don’t have any other option. I don’t have a second choice. Just like you, I want to fit in, need to fit in. I just … I can’t conform to their bullshit. And that’s okay because…” Lightning flashes outside her window, illuminating the tears in her eyes. Fuck. I don’t want to make her cry, but I can’t stop the word vomit from coming. “Because with you,” I continue softer, “it all makes sense. Your counting makes sense. Your patterns make sense. Everything makes sense when I’m with you.”
“Lee—”
“Truthfully, I wasn’t jealous of Aries because you looked normal with him.” My voice roughens. “I was jealous because you looked happy. Because he made you laugh. Because for a moment, I thought maybe you’d realize you deserve better than me and my mess of a life.”
She makes a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob that gets caught in her throat. “Better? Lee, I’m the mess. I’m the broken one. I’m the one who can’t function without counting tiles and wearing gloves and?—”
“None of those things matter. I’m the one who’s falling for every single one of your broken pieces.” The confession rips out of me, raw and honest. “I’m the one who can’t sleep without counting breaths now. Who sanitizes everything three times because that’s your number. Who measures the space between us in heartbeats instead of feet.” The silence stretches between us, broken only by the storm outside and the steady drip of water from my clothes. “You heard my mother,” I say quietly. “But did you hear me when I told Charlotte that the only perfect thing in my life is how your hand fits in mine?”
Salem’s breath hitches. “No.”
“That’s why I’m here now. I walked all the way in the rain, counting every damn step until I reached your door.”
“Why?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Because none of this is pretend anymore.” I meet her eyes. “Is it?”
“I’ve never …” The words stick in my throat.
Salem stands perfectly still, waiting, always waiting for me to find my rhythm like I wait for her to find hers.
“I’d never been with a woman, not until you. Not really.” Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t judge. Just counts her breaths while I fumble for words. “I’ve done … things. Kissed girls, touched them, let them touch me. But never …” I run a hand through my wet hair, sending droplets scattering. “Everyone assumes, and I let them. I mean, how would it look if Lee Sterling, the biggest flirt at Oakmount, who drinks like a fish and instigates fights for the hell of it, confessed he had no actual experience with a woman?”
Salem tilts her head slightly, curiosity rampant in her soft gaze. I answer the unasked question. “I’ve been pretending for a long time, Salem. Pretending that I know what I’m doing, that I know who I am and what I want to be. When really I haven’t had the slightest fucking clue. That night in the pantry when I met you, I felt seen, felt like I didn’t need the mask to be accepted.”
“Lee—”
“It’s terrifying.” The confession burns across my lips. “Because I want you. God, I want you. But I’m scared of messing up. Of pushing too hard or not hard enough. Of making you count breaths for the wrong reasons. Of ruining the only real thing in my life because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
Salem takes one careful step forward. Then another. Then another. She measures the space between us like always but moves closer this time instead of stopping and staying.
“You think I know what I’m doing?” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “You think I have any idea how to be with someone when I can barely touch anything without panicking? When I need to wear gloves just to hold hands? When everything about being intimate terrifies me?”
“That’s different?—”
“Is it?” Her latex-covered fingers hover near my chest, not quite touching. “We’re both scared and inexperienced in our own ways. Both pretending we know how to do this when we don’t.”
For a full minute, neither of us speaks, both of us consumed with the possibility of something more unfurling.
“If you want to do this … if we want to be real. We need rules,” Salem whispers, her hand still pressed to my heart. “Real ones.”
“Okay.” I keep my voice soft and steady. “Like what?”
“Like …” She takes a measured breath. “Like you have to tell me when you’re overwhelmed. No more drinking to handle your family. No more fighting to handle your feelings.” It will be harder than fuck, but I’m willing to do anything I have to do to keep Salem at my side.
“Only if you promise to tell me when you need space. When things get too loud, too much. When you feel like you need to count or clean or just … breathe.”
The storm outside has settled into a gentle rain. Salem’s fingers curl slightly against my chest, latex squeaking.
“Got it and no more pretending,” she adds. “With each other, I mean. We can still … I can pretend for your family.”
“No,” I growl. “No more pretending at all. I want everyone to know that when you count tiles, I count them with you. That when you need three times to clean something, I’m there for all three. That this is real. That you’re mine. That we’re together.”
She sways slightly closer. “Your mother?—”
“Doesn’t matter.” I slide my hand up her arm, careful to keep the touch light through her sweater. “Nothing matters except this. Us. Whatever this terrifying, beautiful thing is.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “Terrifying and beautiful.”
“Like you.”
Her breath catches. “Like you …” She repeats the same words back to me.
The pressure on my chest lifts. We stand there, barely touching, both trembling slightly—me from wet clothes, her from emotion, both carrying the weight of this moment and the vulnerability with us.
“I’m tired,” she finally whispers. “Not of this. Just …”
“I know.” And I do. The night has drained us both. “I should go.” Even as I speak the words, I know that’s not what I want. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay right here, at this moment, with Salem for as long as I can. Seconds tick by, and neither of us says anything. After a moment, Salem speaks.
“Stay.” Her grip on my shirt tightens like the thought of losing me terrifies her just as much. “Just to sleep. My parents are out of town. Not that it really matters since I’m an adult, of course.”
The trust in that request steals my breath. Salem doesn’t let anyone in her space, not like this. Doesn’t break her careful patterns of isolation.
“Are you sure?” I don’t want to push her, especially after all that’s happened already. “I don’t want to leave, but I also don’t want to make things worse.”
She nods. “Noah’s clothes are dry. My bed is clean. And I …” Her voice drops lower. “I might sleep better when I can hear you breathing. When I can count your heartbeats.”
The air between us shifts, and I can’t explain it. It’s like a veil is being lifted. There will be no more pretending, no more hiding, no more measuring the space between fake and real.
Just us.
Together.
Salem’s entire body tenses, and she looks up at me, fear bleeding into her beautiful eyes. “What if I can’t handle touching? Tonight … earlier … was good, but what if there are times when I can’t?”
“Then we don’t touch. We don’t do anything until you’re ready. I want this Salem. I want you, and I want us, for real.”
“What if …” Her voice cracks. “What if I’m never normal again?”
“Salem.” I lift her gloved hand to my heart, letting her feel it race. “Normal is bullshit. This is real. Everything else is just counting time until we’re together.”