24. Salem
TWENTY-FOUR
salem
Dr. Martinez’s waiting room hasn’t changed in the two years I’ve been coming here—same soothing blue walls, same arranged magazines, same familiar safety of routine. What’s changing is me, slowly, painfully.
As I sit now, waiting, my silk-covered hands twist in my lap, the gloves Lee bought me feeling less like protection now and more like a reminder of everything I’m about to lose.
The receptionist offers her usual kind smile, the one she’s given me through every phase of my healing. Through the dark days after Chelsea when I needed three pairs of nitrile gloves just to function. Through the hope Lee brought with his gift of silk ones. Through today, when even these beautiful gloves can’t protect me from the pain of watching someone I love slip away.
I smooth the silk against my thighs, trying to focus on how far I’ve come rather than how much everything hurts. Dr. Martinez would be proud of the progress—one pair of gloves instead of three, the ability to handle crowds sometimes, the strength to recognize when something’s ending before it destroys you.
But she’d also understand why today feels harder than usual. Why I had to force myself to come instead of hiding in my room. Why watching Lee retreat into bourbon and silence at the photo shoot felt like losing him before I had even officially let him go.
I can still see his face as he pulled away, how he cut me with words rather than allowing me to help him. The chaos I used to love about him is becoming something darker, something dangerous, something that reminds me too much of Chelsea’s final days.
But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?
Sitting in this familiar waiting room with silk-covered hands, trying to find the strength to do what needs to be done. Trying to believe that walking away from someone you love can be an act of strength rather than cowardice.
The clock ticks steadily, marking the minutes until my session. Each second feels like another step toward an ending I don’t want but can’t prevent. Because I can’t watch someone else I love destroy themselves. Can’t lose another person to their own demons. Can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.
Progress hurts.
Healing hurts.
Love hurts.
But maybe that’s the point.
“No nitrile today,” Dr. Martinez observes as I settle into my usual spot on her office couch. “The silk ones he gave you—you’re still wearing them.”
It’s not really a question, but I answer anyway. “They feel like … like holding on to something I know I have to let go.” My fingers twist together, silk sliding against silk. “Like the last piece of what we were before everything started falling apart.”
Dr. Martinez lets the silence stretch, giving me space to find words for things I don’t want to face. Her office feels safe—always has, even in my darkest days after Chelsea. But today, that safety makes everything harder somehow. Makes it more real.
“The photo shoot was awful,” I finally say, voice barely above a whisper. “His mother arranged it. Family portraits, society documentation, proof of her son’s suitable relationship.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “Except nothing about it felt right. Nothing about it felt real anymore.”
“Tell me about that.” Her voice is gentle but firm, the way it always is when she knows I’m avoiding something harder.
“He was drinking.” The words taste like bourbon and heartbreak. “Not just a glass or two to handle his mother’s antics. Really drinking. Pulling away. Retreating into himself with every shot.” My silk-covered hands clench. “I watched him disappear right in front of me, and all I could think was …”
“Was what?”
“Was that I’ve seen this before.” Tears blur my vision, but don’t fall. “With Chelsea. The way she started pulling away. The way she retreated into herself. The way she … the way she…”
“The way she chose destruction,” Dr. Martinez finishes softly. “And now you’re seeing similar patterns with Lee.”
“Yes.” The admission feels like betrayal somehow. “Except this time, I’m not the naive girl who didn’t see it coming. This time, I know the signs. This time, I understand what watching someone spiral looks like.” I look down at my gloved hands. “This time, I have to be strong enough to walk away before …”
“Before?”
“Before I lose someone else I love. And then myself in the reckoning of it. I can’t be that girl again. I won’t be that girl again. But how can I face life after him?”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with truth and pain and everything I’ve been afraid to admit.
“Tell me about his drinking,” Dr. Martinez says after I’ve collected myself. “How it’s changed things between you.”
“It’s not just the amount, though that’s getting worse.” My fingers trace the edges of my gloves, finding comfort in their familiar silk. “It’s how he uses it now. Not for parties or social events, but to disappear. To hide from his family’s expectations. To drown whatever demons he’s fighting. And worse, I realized he does the same thing with sex, and it’s making me question every kiss, every touch. He’s using it all to hide himself away.”
“Like Chelsea used isolation,” she observes quietly. “To hide her pain. Or when that didn’t work, perfectionism so no one could see the cracks.”
“Yes.” The parallel hits hard. “Except Lee uses bourbon instead of silence. Chaos instead of withdrawal. The result is the same—watching someone slip away piece by piece while pretending everything’s fine.”
Dr. Martinez lets that sink in before asking, “And how are you handling that? Seeing these similarities?”
A laugh escapes me, but it sounds more like a sob. “I’m wearing silk gloves he bought me while planning to walk away from him. How do you think I’m handling it?”
“With more strength than you’re giving yourself credit for,” she says firmly. “You recognize the patterns now. You understand what’s happening. That’s growth, Salem.”
“Is it growth?” I look up at her, needing answers I know she can’t give. “Or is it just history repeating itself? Me failing to save someone else I love?”
“You couldn’t save Chelsea,” she reminds me gently. “Just like you can’t save Lee. That’s not failure—that’s understanding that people have to fight some battles for themselves.”
That truth settles in my chest like lead because she’s right. Because I know she’s right. Because sometimes the hardest lesson is learning you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
“I love him,” I whisper, and the words feel like glass in my throat. “I love how he understands my patterns without judging them. How he makes chaos feel beautiful instead of threatening. How he …” I swallow hard. “How he made me believe I could be more than my broken pieces.”
“But?”
“But I can’t watch someone else I love destroy himself.” The tears finally fall. “I can’t lose another person to their own demons. I can’t … I can’t survive that again.”
Dr. Martinez hands me a tissue, and I realize I’ve twisted my gloves almost off my hands. Like even they know it’s time to let go.
“You know”—Dr. Martinez leans forward slightly—“choosing to walk away doesn’t mean you failed. Sometimes it means you’re finally strong enough to choose yourself.”
“Even if choosing myself means breaking both our hearts?” I smooth my gloves back into place, trying to find stability in the familiar gesture. “Even if there’s still the engagement gala coming up—the last thing I promised him, the final piece of our arrangement?”
“Tell me about that.” She catches the conflict in my voice. “About the gala.”
“It’s soon.” My throat tightens. “His sister’s engagement announcement. The whole Sterling family will be there, and all of society will be watching. I promised I’d see this through, be there for him one last time. Give him …” I trail off, realizing what I’m really doing.
“Give him what, Salem?”
“One last chance.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “One last opportunity to prove me wrong. To show me he’s not going to become another Chelsea. To convince me that staying wouldn’t mean watching someone else I love fade away drink by drink.”
Dr. Martinez studies me for a moment. “And if he doesn’t take that chance? If he shows up drunk, retreats into bourbon again?”
“Then I walk away.” The certainty in my voice surprises us both. “Then I keep these silk gloves as a reminder that some love stories end before they really begin. Then I …” My voice cracks. “Then I choose myself over watching history repeat itself.”
“That’s incredibly brave,” she says softly. “Recognizing your limits, setting boundaries, being willing to walk away—that’s not something the Salem I first met could have done.”
She’s right. The girl who came to her after Chelsea, drowning in guilt and nitrile gloves, couldn’t have made this choice. Couldn’t have recognized when love becomes destruction. Couldn’t have found the strength to save herself instead of trying to save everyone else.
“I just wish …” I stop, fighting tears again.
“Wish what?”
“Wish loving him was enough.” The admission hurts. “Wish I could save him like I couldn’t save Chelsea. Wish I didn’t have to choose between watching him destroy himself or walking away while I still can.”
“But you know that’s not how it works,” she reminds me gently. “People have to want to save themselves. Have to choose their own healing. Have to fight their own demons.”
“I know.” And I do know, even if knowing feels like swallowing glass. “I’ll give him the gala. One last night. One last chance. And then …”
“And then?”
“And then I choose myself.” I look down at my silk-covered hands. “Even if choosing myself means letting him go.”
“Tell me about your family.” Dr. Martinez shifts topics, knowing when I need a break from heavier truths. “How have they been handling your relationship with Lee?”
“They don’t really know him,” I admit, shame coloring my voice. “I’ve only let him meet Noah. I couldn’t … couldn’t bring him home the way he was at the photo shoot. Couldn’t let my parents see him drinking, retreating, becoming something darker.”
“Noah knows him, though?”
“Noah saw him at his best in the beginning. Saw how he helped me feel safer, how he understood my patterns, how he made everything make sense.” I twist my gloved fingers together. “But lately, even Noah’s noticed the change. Keeps asking if I’m okay, if Lee’s okay, if everything’s …”
“If everything’s what?”
“If everything’s turning into another Chelsea situation.” The words come out barely above a whisper. “Mom and Dad … they worked so hard to help me after Chelsea. The hospital bills, the therapy, the endless patience while I learned to exist in the world again. I can’t …” I swallow hard. “I can’t let them watch me go through losing someone else like that.”
Dr. Martinez lets that settle before asking, “And what does Noah think about the gala?”
“He offered to pick me up after. Said he’d be on standby in case …” My voice cracks. “In case Lee proves me right instead of wrong. In case I need an escape route. In case this really is the end.”
“Your brother loves you very much.”
“Yes.” Tears blur my vision again. “He’s the only one who really understands why I have to do this. Why I have to give Lee this one last chance, but also why I have to be ready to walk away.” What I don’t say is how much that will kill me and how I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get back on track afterward.
“And are you?” she asks gently. “Ready?”
I look down at my silk-covered hands, at the gloves Lee chose with such care, at everything they represent about who we were and who we’re becoming.
“I have to be.” My voice steadies. “I’ll go to the gala. I’ll give him this last chance. I’ll pray he proves me wrong, that he shows up sober and present and real.” I meet her eyes. “But if he doesn’t …”
“Go on.”
“Then I choose myself. Choose my healing. Choose to be strong enough to walk away before history repeats itself.”
“And if he does prove you wrong?”
Hope flutters in my chest, dangerous but unstoppable. “Then maybe … maybe some love stories don’t have to end. Maybe some chaos can be beautiful again. Maybe some patterns are worth fighting for.”
“I’m proud of you, Salem. So proud.” Dr. Martinez gives me a hug after the session ends.
I leave her office carrying that hope like a fragile bird in my chest. I don’t know, though. Lee hasn’t reached out after the photo shoot, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to reach out to him, either.
In my car, I stare at the gloves, the silk glinting in the light through the window. They are beautiful. I’ve been careful about wearing them, treasuring them. As if my heart knows that once this is all over, they are the only thing I’ll have left of him.
I refuse to check my phone. To refresh my text messages and my social media messages or my call log. I refuse to sit here and cry for hours while I wait for him to decide whether I’m worthy of his apology. I don’t even know if he understands how wrong that day went.
Losing him feels like I’m losing Chelsea all over again. And I don’t think I’ll survive another loss like that.
Please, Lee.
Prove me wrong.
Please.