31. Salem
THIRTY-ONE
salem
THREE MONTHS LATER
The morning sun streams through the coffee shop windows, warming the bare hands I have wrapped around my cup. Sometimes I still reach for gloves out of habit, still feel that urge to create barriers between myself and the world. But I’m learning. Growing. Healing.
The sanitizer sits beside my cup—some habits are worth keeping, after all. Dr. Martinez says it’s not about eliminating all patterns, just finding the ones that help rather than hinder. Like cleaning things that actually need cleaning instead of obsessing over imagined contamination. Like measuring spaces that actually matter instead of letting fear dictate distance.
My textbooks align perfectly on the table—another pattern I’ve kept. There’s comfort in order, in precision, in having certain things exactly where they belong. But now I can handle when things shift slightly. Can breathe through minor chaos. Can exist in a world that isn’t perfectly controlled.
Progress looks different than I expected. It’s not about being normal or fixed or whatever I used to think I needed to be. It’s about finding a balance between the patterns that help and the ones that hurt.
Like the gloves.
Like the constant counting.
Like the need to control everything and everyone around me.
My fingers trace patterns in the condensation on my cup, feeling the cool moisture directly against my skin. Three months ago, this would have sent me into a panic.
Now it just feels real. Present. Part of existing in a world that can’t always be perfectly ordered. The coffee shop bustles around me, people moving in their usual morning routines. I notice them differently now—not as threats to my careful order but as part of the natural chaos of life. Some of them nod as they pass, recognizing me as a regular. The barista already knows my order, and some of the other regulars keep my space open for me.
I’ve carved out my own place here, found my own way to exist in the messy reality of life. Not perfect. Not normal. But real. Present. Whole in my own way.
Even if sometimes I still miss him.
Even if sometimes I wonder if he’s found his own healing.
Even if sometimes I hope …
But that’s a pattern I’m trying to break—waiting for someone else to complete. I’m learning to be complete on my own, to find peace in my own company, to create order that comes from strength rather than fear.
Even if my heart still counts the days since I last saw him.
Someone slides into the chair across from me, and I start to say my usual “I’m sorry, this seat is taken” when I look up. The words die in my throat. Because it’s Lee, and he looks… different. Good different. Healthy different. The kind of different that steals my breath and makes my world tilt on its axis.
He’s wearing a crisp blue button-down that brings out the storm in his eyes, the collar open and undone, his hair neat but still slightly rebellious. But it’s more than his appearance—there’s a steadiness to him now, a quiet confidence that has nothing to do with his usual carefully constructed charm.
“Hi,” he says simply, and even his voice is different. Clearer. More present. More real than I’ve ever heard it.
I realize I’m staring, my bare hands frozen around my cup, my perfectly practiced composure scattering like sugar packets in a breeze. This is Lee, but not the Lee I last saw on those cliffs three months ago. Not the Lee drowning himself in bourbon and self-hatred. Not the Lee who needed saving from himself.
This is someone new. Someone solid. Someone who looks at me with eyes that are clear and focused and absolutely terrifying in their intensity.
“You’re not wearing gloves,” he observes softly but doesn’t reach for my hands. Doesn’t try to touch. Doesn’t do anything except notice, like he always has.
“You’re not drinking,” I counter, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
His smile is different, too—real, not practiced. Gentle, not performing. “Ninety-three days sober. Not that I’m counting or anything.”
But he is counting; I can tell. The same way I still count some things, still need some patterns, still find comfort in certain orders. The difference is in how we carry those numbers now—not as chains but as markers of progress.
“Lee—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Let me? Please? I’ve practiced this speech about a hundred times, and if I don’t get it out now, I might lose my nerve.”
I nod, my hands tightening around my cup, my world narrowing to this moment, this man, this version of us that feels simultaneously familiar and completely new.
The morning sun catches in his hair, highlighting strands of gold I never noticed before. Or maybe I just never let myself notice, too busy maintaining walls and counting spaces and keeping careful distance.
But now …
Now, he sits across from me, solid and present and real.
Now, he looks at me like he sees all of me—torn patterns and healing pieces alike.
Now, everything feels possible in a way it never has before.
And I find myself holding my breath, waiting to hear what this new Lee, this steady Lee, this healing Lee has to say.
Lee takes a sip of what I realize is just plain black coffee. His movements are measured and deliberate like he’s learned his own kind of patterns. Like he’s found his own way to make sense of the world.
“You look good,” I say, because someone needs to break this charged silence, and because it’s true. The shadows under his eyes are gone, replaced by a kind of peace I’ve never seen in him before. His hands are steady as he sets down his cup, no tremors, no desperate need to reach for liquid courage.
“I feel good,” he says, and his voice carries a certainty that makes my heart stutter. “Clear. Present. Real, maybe for the first time since … shit, I don’t know. A long time ago.”
I wonder what kind of healing he’s done in these three months, what kind of peace he’s found while I was learning to exist without gloves.
“I have a job,” he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. “At a tech startup. Doing cybersecurity, if you can believe it. Turns out all those years of hacking my family’s accounts taught me some marketable skills. Well, that and the degree I somehow earned between keg stands.”
I can’t help but smile at that—at how he’s turned rebellion into legitimate work, chaos into order, destruction into creation. “Psh, you’re too much of a gentleman to do a keg stand. It’s beer funnels or nothing for you. But, joking aside, I can believe it. You’ve always been smarter than you let people see.”
“Yeah, well.” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. “Turns out I’m good at more than just drinking and fighting. Who knew?”
“I knew,” I say softly, and his eyes snap to mine. “I always saw more than the chaos you showed everyone else.”
Something shifts in his expression—vulnerability, maybe, or hope. “You did, didn’t you? Saw through every mask, every performance, every carefully constructed wall. Just like I saw through your gloves and counting and patterns.”
The truth of that settles between us, heavy with meaning and possibility. Because he did see through my barriers, just as I saw through his. We recognized each other’s destroyed pieces from the start, even if we weren’t ready to admit it then.
“NA meetings help,” he says after a moment. “Three times a week.” His lips quirk slightly. “I picked that number on purpose, you know. Because it was yours. Because even when I was trying to get better for me , I was thinking of you .”
The admission hangs in the air between us, more intimate than any touch, more real than any performance we ever gave. Because this is Lee without masks, without bourbon, without carefully constructed charm.
This is just … Lee.
Real and present and healing.
Just like I’m just Salem now.
Real and present and healing.
And somehow, that feels more powerful than any pattern or protection we ever created before.
“I did it for me,” Lee says, tracing the rim of his coffee cup like he used to trace patterns in spilled bourbon. “The sobriety, the therapy, the meetings. Had to do it for me, or it wouldn’t stick. But …” He looks up, meeting my eyes with an intensity that steals my breath. “You were there, in every choice. Every moment I wanted to drink. In every pattern I created to stay sane.”
I want to reach for him, to bridge this careful space between us. My bare hands itch to touch, to confirm he’s real, to make sure this isn’t another performance. But I wait, letting him find his words, allowing this moment to unfold in its own time.
“The first month was hell,” he continues, his voice steady despite the weight of confession. “Kept thinking about Promised Land, about Mother’s disappointment, about every time someone tried to fix me. But my therapist—” He smiles slightly. “The one you recommended, actually. She helped me see I was never damaged to begin with. Just different. Like you.”
“Different,” I echo, the word feeling right in a way that “broken” never did. “Not wrong, just …”
“Just ourselves,” he finishes. “With our patterns and chaos and measured spaces. With our counting and our needs and our own ways of making sense of the world.”
His hand rests on the table between us, not reaching, not demanding, just … present.
“I work until three,” he continues, watching me with curiosity. “But I was thinking… Maybe one of these days, we could go to dinner? If you want? Not as a performance, not as an arrangement, not as anything except us. Real us. And we can decide whatever that means when the time comes.”
The invitation hangs between us, weighted with everything we’ve been through, everything we could be, everything that feels possible now that we’re both healing in our own ways.
“Us,” I repeat softly, testing how the word feels on my tongue. Not torn pieces trying to fix each other. Not careful patterns trying to contain chaos. Just … us.
And somehow that’s the most terrifying and wonderful possibility of all.
“Real dinner,” Lee clarifies, his voice carrying a hint of nervousness I’ve never heard before. “At that little Italian place on Oak Street. The one with private booths and sealed silverware. Where we can take our time and talk and …” He watches me with those storm-gray eyes. “And maybe start over. Do things right this time.”
The reality of this, of him, us. Of this very moment. It presses down on me.
“You came back,” I whisper. “After I told you to get help, to fix yourself, to …” I swallow hard. “After I walked away, you still came back.” What’s more, there’s a vulnerability to him now that I never saw before. It’s as if his mask is completely gone. And he’s no longer hiding, just like I asked of him.
“I’ll always come back to you, Pantry Girl.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “But I knew when I did that I wanted to be better. Stronger. Ready to be whatever we could be, without bourbon or pretense or careful performances.”
The morning sun streams through the windows, catching on my bare hands, on his clear eyes, on everything real and possible between us.
“Yes,” I say, realizing I didn’t answer his question about dinner.
“Yes?”
“To dinner.” I feel myself smiling, really smiling, no careful composition needed. “To starting over. To …” I gesture back and forth between us, encompassing everything we could be. “To trying again … well, trying for real.”
His answering smile could outshine the sun. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reach across the table, my bare hand finding his. The contact sends electricity through my veins, but not panic. Not fear. Just … connection. “But Lee?”
“Hmm?” He stares at our joined hands like they’re something miraculous.
“I don’t want to start completely over.” My fingers lace with his. “I want to remember how far we’ve come. How much we’ve grown. How real everything still is between us.” His thumb traces patterns on my palm, and for once, I don’t need to count them to feel safe.
“I love you.” Lee’s words come out steady, certain, clear as the morning light streaming through the windows. “Not because you taught me patterns could be beautiful. Not because you saw through every mask I wore. Not even because you were brave enough to walk away when I needed to heal.” My heart stutters in my chest, but I don’t pull my hand away. Don’t retreat behind careful walls. Don’t need to count breaths to stay present at this moment. “I love you because you’re you. Because you count tiles when anxious but can sit here now with bare hands touching mine. Because you wear silk gloves to fancy parties but learned to exist without them when you’re ready. Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, even when you think you aren’t.”
Tears blur my vision, but they’re different from the ones I used to shed when everything ended three months ago.
“I love you, too,” I whisper, “not because you got sober or found a job or proved anything to anyone. But because you’re you. You’re finding out who you want to be.”
His hand tightens on mine, and I see tears in his eyes, too. Storm-gray swimming with emotion that needs no measuring, no counting, no careful control.
“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” His voice is rough with feeling. “The OCD girl who learned to live without gloves and the alcoholic heir who learned to live without bourbon. Both of us were so afraid of not fitting into our own worlds that we almost missed being real.”
“But we didn’t miss it,” I say, understanding blooming like a slow and steady dawn. “We just … needed time. Needed growth. We needed to learn how to love ourselves before we could love each other properly.”
“Yeah.” He lifts our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my bare knuckles. The contact sends shivers down my spine, but not from fear. Never from fear, not with him. Not anymore. “So what do you say, Salem? Ready to be real with me? No arrangements, no pretense, no careful performances. Just us, with all our patterns and chaos and perfectly imperfect pieces?”
I look at our hands, at his clear eyes, at everything possible stretching before us like an uncounted future.
“Yes,” I say simply, meaning it more than anything I’ve ever said. “Just us. Real us. Whatever that means.”