The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

30. Lee

THIRTY

lee

The small amount of bourbon I drank still burns in my veins, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough to drown out Pastor James’s voice, or Mother’s disappointment, or the weight of everything I’ve lost tonight. The cliffs descend before me, offering a different kind of silence. The kind that can make all the noise in my head disappear. I could do it, end it all, right now.

It would be so easy to stop existing. To stop trying to be something that I’ll never be.

But I can’t yet. Not with her here.

When I arrived, I’d frozen in the shadows, unable to move, to speak, to breathe as their conversation unfolded. Reading her file had revealed the truth to me, but hearing her speak it out loud … her pain and anguish became real. And the pieces in my brain clicked together.

Was she trying to save me like she tried to save Chelsea?

All this time, I thought I was protecting her. Thought I was the strong one, the one creating safe spaces to help her navigate the world.

But I wasn’t. Turns out she’s been the brave one this whole time, and I was too caught up in the darkness to see it.

Brave enough to face her demons.

Brave enough to let go of misplaced guilt.

Brave enough to choose herself over watching someone else self-destruct.

While I’ve been drowning myself in bourbon, running from memories, trying to drink away everything that makes me fucked up.

God, I don’t deserve her.

Never did.

Never will.

My chest fills with pride as I sit here, watching the starlight glimmer on the pale skin of her hands. I wish I could take a photo of her right now and keep it forever locked in my memory. She looks more real than anything in my fake world ever has.

I know I came here to end everything, but I think I found a reason to finally start living instead.

I sink down next to her, careful to maintain distance even though everything in me wants to reach for her. The night spreads out before us, quiet and still.

“I was going to tell you,” she says after a long silence. “About Chelsea. About why I count things. About all of it. But then everything got so complicated, and you started pulling away, and I …” She trails off, bare hands pressing harder against the stone.

“I started drinking more. Started proving I was exactly what everyone said I was—unloveable, unfixable, unworthy.” The truth comes easier here, on this cliff’s edge.

“I went to the hospital afterward,” she continues, her voice barely a whisper. “Not because of the guilt. I mean, that was part of it, but losing Chelsea triggered a fear bigger than anything I’ve ever encountered in my life. I couldn’t handle the idea that sometimes you do everything right, measure everything perfectly, and nothing turns out the way you thought it would. Sometimes you can do all the right things, and bad stuff can still happen.”

Her confession kills me, slices me straight down the middle because that’s what I’ve been doing, isn’t it? Proving her fears right. Showing her that no matter how carefully she counts, how precisely she measures, people will still choose to destroy themselves if they want.

“Six months,” she says. “That’s how long I spent learning how to exist again. Learning that I couldn’t save everyone. Learning that some things can’t be controlled, no matter how many times you count them.”

“Like me.” The words taste like bourbon and regret.

“Like you.” She finally looks at me, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just the kind of understanding that makes me feel smaller somehow. “Like Chelsea. Like everyone who has to want to save themselves before anyone else can help them.”

The seconds tick by, and I know without a doubt I have to get better. I have to choose myself if I’m ever going to be worthy of Salem’s love.

“I should have told you sooner,” she whispers.

“No.” I cut her off gently. “Don’t do that. Don’t make my choices your responsibility. You’ve carried enough guilt that wasn’t yours. You don’t owe me anything.”

She looks surprised, like she didn’t expect me to be capable of such insight. Hell, maybe I surprised myself.

“I left them,” I say into the quiet night. “My family. All of it. Told Mother I was done pretending to be the heir. Done letting them try to fix me.”

Salem’s hands are still against the stone. “Because of me?”

“No.” The answer comes fast, certain. “Because of me. Because I’m tired of drinking away who I really am. Tired of letting Pastor James’s voice in my head tell me I need fixing. Tired of trying to be someone I’m not.”

“Lee—”

“I mean it.” I turn to face her, needing her to understand. “Yes, watching you walk away tonight killed me, but it also woke me up. It made me realize I can’t keep drowning myself and expecting someone else to throw me a life jacket.”

The stars reflect in her eyes as she studies me, looking for truth or lies or something in between. I let her look, let her see all of me for once—no bourbon shield, no practiced charm, no carefully constructed walls.

“They’ll cut you off,” she says softly. “Take everything.”

“Let them.” I laugh, and it sounds like freedom. “They can take the trust fund, the family name, the societal connections. What they can’t take is who I am. Who I choose to be. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

“And who are you?” The question carries weight, meaning, everything we’ve never said.

“I don’t know yet.” The honesty burns worse than the bourbon ever did. “But I know I count ceiling tiles at three a.m. because patterns make sense when nothing else does. Someone who checks things three times because that’s your number, and somehow it became mine, too. Someone who’s so fucking tired of pretending to be anything other than exactly what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“Bisexual.” My voice is strong. “Chaotic. A mess of ADHD and anxiety and rebellion. Someone who was told he needed conversion therapy to be suitable for society but found more acceptance in your carefully ordered world than any country club ballroom.”

She’s quiet for a long moment as she processes.

“Promised Land,” she finally says. “That’s where they sent you? To pray away who you are?”

“To fix me.” The old bitterness rises, but it feels different now. Lighter somehow. “Six months of therapy and scripture and carefully structured isolation. Kind of like your hospital stay, except instead of learning to live with who I am, they tried to make me someone else entirely.”

“But … I’m so sorry, Lee. That is awful.” Her voice holds no judgment, only understanding. Understanding but guarded.

“Obviously, it worked about as well as trying to drink away who I am.” I gesture vaguely at myself, still in my rumpled tux, still slightly buzzed, still broken in all the ways that matter. “Which is to say, not very well. But I can’t keep going like this. I can’t keep drowning myself in liquor, hoping the memories fade. Hoping I wake up a different person. I need to fix myself, fix the pieces that I broke trying to be someone I wasn’t.”

The side of Salem’s mouth lifts in the ghost of a smile. “Tell me about Promised Land.”

“They made us write letters,” I say, the words spilling out after years of silence. “To our future selves. To the better versions we’d become after they fixed us. I wrote about the wife I’d have, the perfect Sterling heir I’d be, and how proud I’d make my mother.”

Salem listens quietly, her presence steadying even without touch. The same way she steadies me when we count tiles together.

“But at night,” I continue, voice rougher, “I’d write different letters. Real ones. About how scared I was of losing myself and how much I hated pretending. All I wanted was to be someone they could love. Someone who was accepted.” I laugh, but it comes out broken. “Then one day, they found those letters. Used them in group therapy as examples of my confusion. Made me burn them while reciting scripture.”

“I know it doesn’t mean shit, and it won’t change anything, but I want you to know that I’m sorry.” Her apology isn’t what I need, but it helps to slow the bleeding.

“You know what’s funny?” I stare at the stars, unable to look at her compassion. “Even after everything, after I learned to play their game and be what they wanted … I still wasn’t fixed. I still count things. Still seek out patterns. Still try to control chaos in my head. Just like you.”

“But you drink to quiet it,” she says softly. “To drown the patterns instead of using them.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Only because patterns remind me of Promised Land. Of trying to fit myself into someone else’s box.”

“Until you met me.” It’s not a question.

“Until I met you,” I agree. “Then I realized patterns weren’t about fixing anything. They were about making sense of chaos. About finding beauty in broken pieces. About …” I’m afraid of saying too much.

“About what?”

“About feeling safe,” I whisper. “Not suitable. Not fixed. Just … safe. In my own skin. In my own head. In your carefully measured world that somehow made room for all of my messes.”

“I used to hate my patterns,” Salem says after a moment. “Used to think they were the punishment given to me because I failed to save Chelsea. Especially because they went from occasionally counting certain things to the gloves and counting everything. When we first met, my only hope was that I could find a way back to being normal.”

“What changed?”

Her smile is small but real. “I met someone who showed me that being normal is bullshit. That some patterns are worth keeping. That sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones that don’t align perfectly.”

There’s hope and truth in her voice, and I lean into it.

“It was never pretend,” I say into the quiet night, the confession burning worse than any bourbon. “Not for me. Not from the moment you started counting ceiling tiles in that pantry. Not even when I was trying to convince myself it was just an arrangement.”

Salem goes very still beside me, her bare hands pressing harder against the stone. “Lee?—”

“No. I need to tell you this because it’s important. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance again, and I want you to know.”

“Okay …”

“I love you.” The words rush out, terrifying and true. “Not because you quiet the noise in my head. Not because you understand patterns and chaos. Not because you’ve never tried to fix me but because you make me want to fix myself. You make me want to be better, do better.”

The stars move above us, constant and chaotic like everything I feel for her. Like everything I’ve been too scared to admit without liquid courage numbing the fear.

“I love how you count things,” I continue, unable to stop now that I’ve started. “Love how you measure spaces. Love how you make the world make sense just by existing in it. Love how you’ve never asked me to be suitable. Only real.”

“Stop.” Her voice cracks. “Please. You can’t?—”

“I can. I am. I love you, Salem. Even if I don’t deserve you. Even if I’ve fucked everything up. Even if?—”

Her bare hand finds mine in the darkness. It’s skin against skin, no silk or latex barriers between us. The contact steals my breath, stops my words, and makes everything else fall to the wayside. Holy shit. She’s touching me. Without gloves. Without counting. Without measuring the space between us.

“I’m so sorry for the manipulation, the lies …”

Her voice is barely a whisper, but it carries the weight of everything and cuts the words off in my throat. “None of it matters. Well, yes, it still hurts. But that’s not the point. My loving you is why I had to walk away tonight. That’s why I can’t watch you destroy yourself. That’s why I?—”

“I know.” I lace our fingers together, feeling her pulse race against mine. “I understand. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to save themselves, and sometimes that means you have to choose yourself.”

Her thumb traces against my palm, each touch sending a jolt of electricity through my veins. This means more than any kiss, any heated moment, any physical connection we’ve ever shared. This is her, bare and real and trusting me with her uncounted touch.

“I love you, Lee, but I can’t be with you,” she says, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. “Not until you’re ready to save yourself. Not until you want to be better for you. Not for me or your family, but you. Better for you.”

“I know that, too.” I squeeze her hand gently. “I’m starting to understand a lot of things. Finally.”

Her smile is sad but real. Like hope. Like a promise. Like everything we could be if I get my shit together.

“Good.” She starts to pull away, and I let her. Because that’s love, too—knowing when to hold on and when to let go. “Then maybe someday …”

“Yeah.” I watch her stand, memorizing how starlight catches in her hair. “Someday.”

“Get help, Lee.” She stands silhouetted against the starlight, more beautiful than anything suitable could ever be. “Real help. Not Promised Land. Not bourbon. Stop pretending to be something you’re not.”

“I will.” The promise feels different this time. Real. Like something I’m doing for myself, not for her or family or societal expectations. “I know of a good therapist, actually. Someone who helped a friend learn to live with patterns instead of fighting them.”

Her laugh is soft, surprised. “Using my therapist? That’s almost poetic.”

“I’m full of surprises.” I stay seated, letting her have this moment of being stronger, of walking away on her terms. “Mostly bad ones lately, but I’m working on that.”

She takes a step back, then stops. “Lee?”

“Yeah?”

“When you’re ready—really ready, not just trying to win me back—I’d love to meet the real you.”

It’s the whisper of a future together, hope that maybe soon when I’ve figured myself out that I can be someone worthy of her careful patterns.

“You and me both.” I watch her start down the path, memorizing how she moves through darkness without fear now. “And Pantry Girl …?”

She pauses, not turning around. “Yes?”

“Thank you. For showing me that some patterns are worth keeping. That some chaos is worth fixing. That some love is worth earning.”

She doesn’t respond, but her steps are lighter as she disappears into the night. She’s not running this time. Not hiding. Just giving me space to become someone who deserves her bare-handed trust.

I stay on the cliff’s edge, feeling the ghost of her touch on my palm.

It’s strange how for the first time in years, the chaos in my head appears a little more manageable. The need for bourbon softens around the edges. The voice of Promised Land is a little quieter.

Because she loves me.

Because she believes I can be better.

Because she trusted me with her uncounted touch.

And maybe that’s enough to start with.

Maybe that’s everything.

Maybe that’s exactly what I need to finally save myself.