The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

28. Lee

TWENTY-EIGHT

lee

I see him through the sparkle of crystal chandeliers and society smiles—Pastor James, looking exactly the same as he did at Promised Land. Same wire-rimmed glasses. Same perfectly pressed suit. Same expression of gentle disappointment that preceded every therapy session.

The room tilts sideways, or maybe that’s just my world shifting. He hasn’t spotted me yet, too engaged in conversation with some society matron, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sixteen again, sitting in that sterile office while he explains how they’re going to fix me. Make me suitable. Make me normal.

My hands shake as I grab the first drink I see—someone’s abandoned whiskey on a nearby table. The liquid burns going down, but not enough to erase the memories. Not enough to silence his voice in my head. “This is for your own good, Lee. Your parents want what’s best for you. We can help you choose the right path.”

The right path. Like there was ever a choice. Like six months of scripture and therapy and structured isolation could change who I really am. Like anything they did in that place could make me less broken.

Another drink appears in my hand—I don’t even care how. But alcohol isn’t enough tonight. Not with Pastor James twenty feet away, probably still believing he helped save my soul. Not with Salem’s earlier dismissal proving once and for all that I’m exactly what they always said—unsuitable, unworthy, unfixable.

She didn’t even hesitate to walk away. Didn’t fight for us. Didn’t give me a chance to explain about the bullies or Promised Land or any of it. Just accepted that everything between us was fake before moving on with perfect composure.

Maybe she had the right idea. Maybe everything about me is fake. Maybe Pastor James and my parents and everyone else were right all along.

The whiskey burns, but not as much as the memories.

Group therapy sessions where we confessed our unnatural urges.

Private counseling, where Pastor James explained how my confusion hurt my family.

Carefully monitored social interactions designed to teach us normal behavior.

Letters from home that only arrived after we’d made progress .

I reach for another drink, needing to drown the past before it drowns me. Needing to forget Pastor James and Promised Land and the way Salem looked at me earlier—like I was nothing more than a business arrangement she couldn’t wait to conclude.

They were right about me all along.

I don’t deserve real connections.

I don’t deserve genuine love.

I don’t deserve Salem’s careful patterns or measured breaths or perfectly ordered world.

So I’ll do what I do best.

I’ll drink until the memories blur, and I’ll pretend nothing matters, and I’ll prove them all right about exactly how unsuitable I really am.

Even if it kills me.

Even if I lose everything.

Even if Salem’s dismissal already feels like drowning.

“There you are, darling.” Mother’s voice cuts through my bourbon haze. “We need family photos before the announcement. Do try to look presentable.”

Family photos. We take so fucking many of them, like we’re actually a family and not just perfectly arranged props in her ongoing performance. Like Pastor James isn’t watching from across the room, probably proud of how well his therapy took.

“Where’s Salem?” Mother continues, brushing invisible lint from my jacket. “She needs to be in these. One last official documentation of your … experiment. When you and Charlotte marry, you can use them in party anecdotes about how you tried to run away from your destiny.”

I want to tell her to fuck off because she’s just being cruel, rubbing it in.

I want to throw my drink in her perfectly made-up face. I want to scream that Salem isn’t an experiment—she’s everything that’s real in my fake world. But the bourbon’s made my tongue heavy, my thoughts slow.

“I’ll find her.” Aries appears beside us, all perfect society manners. When did he get so good at this? “Lee, maybe you should freshen up first.”

The suggestion carries weight I’m too drunk to interpret. But before I can respond, I see her—Salem, moving through the crowd with careful grace. The burgundy dress I chose flows around her legs, making her look like something from a dream. A dream I never deserved.

She approaches without being called, probably seeing the gathering of family members. Always so aware of her obligations. Always so perfect in her performance.

“Salem, darling.” Mother’s voice drips honey-coated venom. “We were just looking for you. Family photos, you know.”

“Of course.” Salem’s smile is flawless, practiced, empty. She takes her place beside me without touching me, maintaining a careful distance that feels like miles.

She smells like cherry blossoms and heartbreak. The scent makes me want another drink, but Aries has conveniently disappeared with my glass.

“Lee,” she says softly, perfectly polite. “You might want to stand up straighter.”

The gentle suggestion hurts worse than any cruelty. Because this is what we’ve become—strangers exchanging careful words, maintaining perfect appearances, pretending we never counted breaths together at three a.m.

“Right,” I manage, trying to focus through the bourbon. “Wouldn’t want to ruin Mother’s perfect photos.”

Something flickers in Salem’s eyes—pain? Pity? It doesn’t matter; her smile never wavers. She’s better at this performance than I ever was. Better at maintaining composure. Better at everything.

No wonder she found it so easy to walk away.

No wonder she saw through all my carefully constructed walls.

No wonder she’s ready to be done with this arrangement.

The photographer starts arranging us, and Salem shifts slightly, creating more space between us. Even drunk, I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical wound.

This is what I deserve, isn’t it?

This careful distance.

This perfect politeness.

This gentle dismissal from someone who saw all of me and found me wanting.

Just like Pastor James predicted.

Just like Mother always knew.

Just like everyone eventually comes to realize.

I’m not suitable for anyone.

Especially not Salem.

The photos feel endless—Mother arranging and rearranging us like dolls in her perfect tableau. Salem maintains her flawless smile, her careful distance, her impeccable performance. I maintain my vertical position through sheer spite and several more stolen drinks.

Emma glows with genuine happiness about her engagement, making everything worse. Because this is what real love looks like. This is everything I’ll never have, everything I don’t deserve.

“Just a few more,” the photographer calls, adjusting lights that send pain stabbing through my head. “Mr. Sterling, perhaps you could stand closer to Miss Masters?”

Salem doesn’t flinch when I sway nearer. Doesn’t react when my hand brushes her waist. Doesn’t show any sign that we ever meant anything to each other beyond this carefully choreographed scene.

“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, but nothing is perfect. Not the way Salem holds herself rigid beside me. Not the way Mother watches with calculating eyes. Not the way Pastor James lingers at the edges of the crowd, a constant reminder of everything I tried to drink away.

“Almost done,” Salem whispers, and I hate how gentle she sounds. Like I’m something fragile. Something broken. Something that needs her careful handling even now.

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don’t pretend to care.”

She does flinch then, just slightly. A crack in her perfect composure that disappears so quickly I might have imagined it.

“Lee—”

“You made yourself clear earlier.” The bourbon makes me cruel, honest, and desperate. “This is just business, right? An arrangement. The final performance.”

The camera captures her careful mask slipping back into place. Captures the way she steps slightly away from me. Captures the exact moment I realize I’ve lost the only real thing I’ve ever had.

“Yes,” she says quietly, perfectly poised even now. “That’s exactly what this is.”

The words hit harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. Because she’s right, this is what it’s always been—a business arrangement. A careful negotiation. A perfectly executed performance by someone who deserves so much better than my mess of a life.

Mother calls for more poses, more arrangements, more perfect documentation of her perfect family. And through it all, Salem plays her part flawlessly.

While I drown in bourbon and memories and the growing certainty that Pastor James was right—I’ll never be suitable for anyone’s real love story.

Especially not hers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mother’s voice rings through the ballroom, commanding attention like always. “We have a very special announcement.”

Emma steps forward with her fiancé, both radiating joy that makes my stomach turn. Or maybe that’s the bourbon. Either way, I find myself reaching for another drink as Mother launches into her perfectly rehearsed speech about love and family and joyous matches.

Through the crystal blur of my glass, I watch Salem. Watch how she maintains her smile even as she starts easing toward the edge of the crowd. Watch how she measures her retreat so carefully that almost no one notices.

Almost no one except me.

She’s leaving. Really leaving. Not just the party, but my life. Walking away with the same quiet dignity she’s shown all night. No drama. No scenes. No chance for me to fix any of it.

I want to stop her. Want to explain about the bullies, about Promised Land , about how everything real and fake got so tangled up I can’t tell the difference anymore. But the bourbon’s made my legs heavy, my thoughts scattered, my timing shit.

Because before I can move, Charlotte appears.

“Lee.” Her hand finds my arm like it belongs there. Like we’re something real. Like we’re the match Mother’s always wanted. “You look like you could use some company.”

Salem pauses her retreat, and I see her notice Charlotte’s familiar touch. See her register how easily I let it happen. See her add one more reason to her list of why walking away is the right choice.

“Charlotte.” I try to pull away, but the room spins slightly. “Don’t?—”

“Shh.” She presses closer, all expensive perfume and societal grace. “Let me help. It’s obvious you’re having a rough night.”

Salem’s still watching. Still seeing everything. Still adding to the evidence of my unworthiness.

“Get off me.” I finally manage to push Charlotte away—probably too roughly, judging by the gasps from nearby guests. But I don’t care. Can’t care. Not when Salem’s almost to the door, and I’m about to lose everything that matters.

“Salem!” Her name comes out too loud, too desperate, too drunk.

She stops but doesn’t turn around immediately. When she does, her composure breaks my heart all over again.

“Don’t.” Her voice carries quiet strength that makes me feel smaller somehow. “Please don’t do this, Lee. Not now. Not like this.”

“I need to explain?—”

“No.” She shakes her head slowly. “You need help. And I can’t be that for you. Won’t be that for you. I deserve more than watching someone I care about destroy himself.”

The gentle truth of her words hits harder than any rejection could.

And suddenly, I’m sixteen again, listening to Pastor James explain all the ways I’ll never be enough.

All the ways I’ll never be accepted.

All the ways I’ll never deserve real love.

Except this time, it’s not religious doctrine or societal rules telling me these things.

It’s the one person who made me believe I could be more.

“Move.” I try to push past Charlotte, but the room tilts dangerously. “Salem, please?—”

“Stop.” Salem’s voice cuts through my drunken haze. “Just stop, Lee. Look at yourself. Look at what you’re doing. This isn’t you.”

But isn’t it? Isn’t this exactly who I am? The drunk disappointment. The unsuitable son. The boy who needed conversion therapy to learn how to be normal.

“You don’t understand,” I manage, hating how my words slur. “I saw him. He’s here. Pastor James. From Promise—” I cut myself off, but it’s too late.

Something shifts in Salem’s expression. Not pity, thank god. But understanding maybe. Compassion I don’t deserve.

“I know.” She steps closer, but still maintains careful distance. “I assumed he had something to do with what Aries told me before. I noticed how you started drinking more after he made his appearance. But that doesn’t matter…” She pauses, choosing her words like she knows how close to breaking I am. “Everyone else might be willing to watch you drown, but I’m not. I can’t be a part of the reason you destroy everything good in your life.”

“There is nothing good in me.” The truth spills out, bourbon-brave and brutal. “They tried to fix that. Tried to make me better. But you saw through it all, didn’t you? Saw how broken I really am.”

“No.” Her voice carries quiet strength that makes me feel even weaker. “I saw someone who counts ceiling tiles at three a.m. because he understands what it’s like to need patterns to feel safe. Someone who cleans things three times without complaint because he knows what it means to need control. Someone who could be amazing if he’d stop trying to drink away who he really is.”

Each word hits like truth, like hope, like everything I’m losing.

“Salem—”

“No. I’m many things, but I will not be a part of your self-destruction.” She steps back again, creating more distance. “I won’t be collateral damage in this war you rage against yourself. I owe myself more than that. And you owe yourself more than this.”

Charlotte tries to touch my arm again, but I shake her off roughly. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Lee.” Salem’s voice gentles even more. “Go home. Get sober. Figure out who you want to be. But don’t expect me to stay and watch you choose destruction over healing. I’ve seen enough people destroy themselves trying to be everything for other people. Be something for yourself. Choose you.”

The reference to Chelsea hits even through my drunk haze. Because she’s right. She’s always been right. About everything.

And I’m losing her anyway.

Because I’m exactly what Pastor James said I’d be.

Unlovable

Unworthy.

Unfixable.

Just like always.

“Lee Sterling.” Mother’s voice cuts through the awkward silence, sharp as broken crystal. “You’re making a scene. Control yourself.”

My father steps forward, only just now noticing something is off. “Lee.” His tone is a low threat, but I scoff.

Something snaps inside me—maybe it’s the bourbon, maybe it’s watching Salem walk away, or maybe it’s seeing Pastor James hovering at the edges of my breakdown like a vulture waiting to help “fix” me again.

“Control myself?” I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my ears. “Like you controlled me? Shipped me off to conversion therapy? Tried to pray away everything that made me different?”

“Lower your voice.” She steps closer, perfect smile cracking slightly. “This is your sister’s engagement party?—”

“Fuck the party.” The words explode out of me. “Fuck your perfect society events. Fuck your suitable matches. Fuck everything about this fake fucking world you’ve built.” I wave at my father. “And fuck you too, because we both know who runs this family, and it’s sure as hell not you or grandfather.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Charlotte retreats, finally getting the message. Pastor James starts forward, probably ready to offer more therapy, but I’m not done.

“You want to cut me off? Do it. Want to take my trust fund? Take it. Want to erase me from the family photos? Be my fucking guest.” My voice carries through the stunned silence. “I don’t want any part of this anymore. Don’t want your money or your connections or your fucking approval.”

“You’re drunk,” Mother hisses. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No, Mother. For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I’m saying.” I meet her eyes steadily, even as the room spins. “I’m done. Done pretending. Done trying to be suitable. Done letting you make me hate myself for who I am.”

Her perfect composure finally cracks. “You will regret this, Son.”

“No.” I glance at Emma, seeing something like pride beneath her shock. “My only regret in life was letting you convince me that I needed to be fixed.”

I turn to leave, my legs unsteady but my determination solid. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, no one wanting to touch the Sterling heir’s very public meltdown.

“If you walk out that door,” Mother calls after me, “don’t bother coming back.”

I don’t turn around. Don’t acknowledge her threat. Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing how much everything hurts.

Instead, I walk away from it all—the family legacy, the societal expectations, the lies.

I’ve already lost the only real thing I ever had, anyway.

Might as well lose everything else, too.