The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

26. Lee

TWENTY-SIX

lee

The morning crowd at The Daily Grind hasn’t thinned yet, but I spot Salem immediately. She’s not in our usual corner—the one with perfect sight lines to all exits, the one I always clean three times before she arrives. Sadness fills the empty space in my chest. Today, she sits near the window, back to the door, like she doesn’t care who might approach her from behind.

Like she doesn’t need me watching her blind spots anymore.

She’s wearing the latex gloves again, not the silk ones I bought her. That hurts. It hits harder than expected. A deliberate step backward. A calculated return to barriers between her and the world.

Between us.

I check my reflection in the window—sober, showered, wearing the sweater she once said brought out the color of my eyes. I maneuver the garment bag I bought for her, just in case.

I’m ready to finally tell her everything. To lay my soul bare to her. Here goes nothing . She doesn’t look up as I approach or even acknowledge me until I clear my throat to draw her attention.

“Lee.” Her voice is perfectly polite, perfectly distant. The kind of polite that feels more like a punishment than a greeting.

“You changed tables.” The words come out accusatory despite my best intentions.

“This one has better lighting for studying.” She still won’t look at me, focused on arranging her books with precise movements. Not the careful patterns I’ve grown used to, just … efficiency. Distance. Walls.

“Salem—”

“Thanks for meeting me.” She finally looks up at me, and my muscles tense, the sudden fear of losing her grabbing onto me. Her brown eyes are blank, lacking the usual warmth and affection I’ve come to know.

Where is my Salem? A heartbeat passes, then another. “Please sit. We need to talk.”

The speech I prepared dies in my throat. The truths I came to tell shrivel under her controlled dismissal. This isn’t my Salem—the one who shares quiet moments and understands unspoken words. This is someone else entirely. Someone who’s built new walls, stronger, reinforced ones. Someone who’s decided I’m not worth the effort of being let in. Someone who’s learned to protect herself—from me.

This is my fault. I did this to her, to us. She has every right to feel the way she does.

The memory of Drew’s encouragement feels distant now, foolish. How could I think telling her everything would help when she’s clearly decided I’m not worth the risk anymore? Dammit. I should walk away. But I can’t. I can’t do it. Not without trying.

I sink into the chair, measuring my movements to avoid disrupting her study materials. “You wanted to talk?”

“Don’t you think you have something to say to me first?” Her pen moves across her notebook in precise strokes, but I notice her hand trembling.

She’s not as composed as she’s pretending to be.

“The gala.” I keep my voice low and steady. “The engagement announcement for my sister. I know it’s not what you signed up for, dealing with my family like this. If you want an out?—”

“Is that it?” She finally meets my eyes. “Really?”

“No.” The word comes fast, honest. “That’s not— No. First, I need to apologize. I was a complete asshole, and you had every right to call me on my shit.”

Something in her gaze softens just slightly. “And?”

“Salem, please—” I want to ask what she wants me to say.

What can I do to fix this? The look in her eyes says I should know already. And I do, but fuck, how do I tell her everything? How do I come clean?

“If I were you, I’d start with an apology. If you don’t plan on apologizing … If you’re here to talk about us, there is nothing to discuss. What’s done is done. If you’re here about the gala, just tell me what you need. Time, place, dress code. I’ll be there. That was the deal, right?”

The deal. Like that’s all this is. All we are. All we’ve been. I won’t lie, it hurts real fucking bad, but again, I deserve it. I deserve whatever she wants to throw at me.

“Yeah.” My voice sounds strange, hollow. “That was the deal.”

She nods once, efficient and distant. “Okay, so please tell me what I need to know so I can get back to studying.”

I look away from her face, letting my gaze drift over her frame. There’s a slight tremble in her hands as she adjusts her notebook’s position. It’s impossible to miss the bob of her throat as she swallows back whatever words she wanted to say. The pain in my chest intensifies, and I know I’m only handing her the bricks, helping her to build the walls between us with every careful word she chooses to speak.

I want Salem.

I want her to be mine, truly, but I’m not stupid. The pain and anger I’ve caused her, the way I’ve hurt her. I took her trust and smashed it. If it isn’t obvious now, I don’t know when it will be. I’m nothing more than a complication in her life. I can’t add my shit onto hers. I can’t make her carry my issues when I’m barely managing to carry them myself. I made the selfish choice to find a way to make her mine, and it bit me in the ass. Now, I have to suffer the consequences.

So I swallow my confessions and give her what she’s asking for.

Distance.

Formality.

Business.

Even if it kills me.

“Right. So the gala starts at eight,” I say, slipping into the polite tone I learned to adopt for societal functions. “Black tie, obviously. My mother’s going all out—full orchestra, ice sculptures, the works. It’s at the Grand Hotel downtown again. The family loves that fucking place.”

“Great.” Salem makes a note in her planner, her handwriting lacking its usual precise care. “Dress code specifics?”

“Actually …” I reach for the garment bag I’d set aside, the one I spent hours choosing with her in mind. “I already took care of that part.”

She stares at the bag like it might bite her. “You didn’t need to?—”

“It’s burgundy.” I interrupt, needing her to understand at least this much. “Like the one from the charity event. It’s different enough that no one will compare them. The back is higher, more coverage. And it has pockets. Hidden ones, but real ones. I know you like having somewhere to put your hands when things get overwhelming.”

Shock that morphs into pain flickers in her expression. “That’s … thorough of you.”

“I pay attention.” The words come out softer than intended. More honest. “You know that. I don’t always do what I should, but I do pay attention.”

Her latex-covered fingers clench slightly. “To the details that matter for appearances. I know.”

“Salem—”

“Anything else?” She doesn’t look at the dress or even me. “Any other arrangements I should be aware of?”

I swallow hard against the urge to expel the secrets I’m keeping. To make her understand that I notice details because I care, not because of appearances. That I remember her preferences because they matter to me, not because this is an act.

“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty,” I say instead. “That will give us time to?—”

“There is no need.” She’s already shaking her head. “Noah can drop me off. It’s easier that way.” Easier. Like having her brother drive her to our last official fake date is easier than letting me pick her up. Like maintaining distance is easier than risking closeness again.

“Right.” My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. “Easier.”

She makes another note in her planner, all businesslike. “Will there be a specific entrance we should use? For the photographers?”

Of course I arranged a private entrance. Of course I made sure there would be quiet spaces she could escape to. Of course I thought of every detail that might make her comfortable. From the very beginning, this has always been about her comfort.

Yes, it was an arrangement, but it was also an obsession and a need.

“East entrance,” I tell her. “I’ll have someone waiting to guide you in.”

“Perfect.” She closes her planner with finality. “Was there anything else?”

Yes. Everything. A thousand truths caught in my throat.

Can I really do this? If it means saving some part of this, of us?

“Promised Land is a conversion therapy camp. For teens who need …”

Her eyes are locked on my face now, all indifference gone. Complete focus. I shudder out a breath. Can I really tell her this? No. Not all of it.

“I was sent there for six months when I was sixteen by my parents after I was caught kissing a boy. They …” I reach around my side and gesture to my back, begging her to understand what I’m trying to say without having to force the words out. Not here. Not like this.

She says nothing, and the hope that flared bright inside me shutters. She’s already moved on. She doesn’t care.

“Well.” I stand slowly, leaving the garment bag draped over the empty chair. “That’s everything you need to know for the gala.”

I watch her gaze flick to the dress before returning to her books. One quick glance that betrays her more than she probably means to. I know she sees what I see—all the careful details chosen specifically for her. The way the fabric will move without restriction. The high neckline won’t make her anxious. The hidden pockets are the perfect size for her gloved hands.

“The color’s pretty,” she offers, her voice soft. Like she’s commenting on a stranger’s choice, not something I spent weeks selecting just for her.

“You’ll look beautiful in it,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s too honest of a response for this business agreement and the ever-growing distance between us.

Her pen stills for a moment. “It’s suitable for the occasion. That’s what matters.”

Suitable. My mother’s favorite word. One that’s haunted every choice I’ve ever made. A word that Salem wears like armor.

“Salem.” I try again, needing to break through this wall somehow. “About the gala … about everything …”

“Please stop. You don’t need to do this. I agreed to come with you. I’ll give you one more chance, but … I need you to talk to me. Exactly like you expect me to talk to you. Be honest with me.”

It’s only then I notice a tear slip down her cheek. I start to reach out, but she ducks away.

“Okay, and what about after everything?” Waiting for her to speak is like trying to walk a tightrope with a car on my chest.

“After what?”

“After the gala. After our deal ends. After?—”

She studies my face and no doubt sees the hollows under my eyes and the paleness of my skin. “I don’t know yet. I can’t until you stop hiding yourself from me.”

I huff out a breath, my patience withering under the pain inside me. “It’s not a secret. Promised Land. I just don’t like talking about it.”

She slides her gloved hand forward almost involuntarily, then tucks it back. “And I won’t rush you, but … I can’t promise anything. Let’s just get through the gala.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat and pushing back the burn behind my eyelids. “Yeah. Let’s just get through the gala.”