4. Lee
FOUR
lee
There’s this insistent buzzing, like a fly that won’t go away. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it as sunlight stabs straight through my skull. There’s that buzzing sound again. I groan and slap my hand in the direction of the noise. What the hell? It continues, and I realize my fingers are wrapped around my phone, the buzzing radiating up my arm. I squint at the screen to see the words on it. Seventeen missed calls from Mother.
Two from Father. Oh, I’m surprised he rouses himself for the effort.
One from my sister, Emma. That one I might return.
Close to thirty texts all basically say the same thing.
Mother: Come home. Immediately. This is not a request.
“Fuck,” I moan, rolling onto my back. I’m met with instant regret, the desire to vomit climbing up my throat. Why did I let Aries convince me those last shots were a good idea? My ceiling spins lazily above me, and I try to remember if I have class today. Try to remember what day it even is. Oh wait. I graduated. Shit. I’m further gone than I thought.
My phone buzzes again, and I focus on the screen this time.
Mother: If you are not here within the hour, there will be consequences.
Another buzz.
Mother: And please try to dress like someone who wasn’t raised in a barn.
I throw my arm over my eyes and contemplate going back to sleep. Except the last time I ignored a summons to the family estate, they froze my accounts for a month. I had to actually think about getting a job.
The horror.
“Fine,” I huff and announce to the empty room, moving into a sitting position.”But I’m wearing ripped jeans just to piss her off.”
A dull throb in my skull develops when I stand, and my attention scatters between the mess of my room—when did I get so many empty bottles?—the growing urgency of my bladder, and the weird, lingering memory of brown eyes and cherry-scented breath in a dark pantry. Focus. Shower. Clothes. Drive. In that order.
I can do this. I can totally handle whatever fresh hell my family has planned for me this time. There goes my phone again. Buzzing. I wish it would buzz out the fucking window.
Mother: One hour, Lee. Don’t make me send your father.
As if he would.
What-the fuck-ever. Walking into the bathroom, I finish undressing and turn on the shower. I wash my hair and body, taking my time just for the hell of it. Once I’m rinsed off, I kill the water, step out, and dry off. I leisurely get dressed, my gaze catching on the bottles of medication lining the bathroom sink. I’m supposed to take the ADHD medication and anxiety meds daily, but I don’t. I hate the way they make me feel, like I’m not me.
I’d rather medicate myself with alcohol. I check the clock on my nightstand. I could leave right now and get there a little early, but I don’t want to be in my parents’ presence any longer than necessary. Plus, I have a better idea. Walking over to the bed, I grab my laptop, plop down on the mattress, and immerse myself in all that is Pantry Girl.
Drew told me her name last night after I drunkenly asked him. Salem Masters . She looks like a Salem, but I prefer Pantry Girl more.
Who knew obsession could ignite so quickly?
After one stolen moment in that dark pantry, I had to know who she was and what she was about. I don’t know what fascinates me about her; she’s nothing special, but I can’t seem to shake the immediate infatuation. So instead of fighting it, I choose to lean into it. Maybe if I figure her out, the desire to know more about her will disappear. It does help that I know a thing or two about hacking and my way around the dark web.
I did somehow finish my degree in computer engineering.
I keep my research light, letting Google tell me what it can about her. It doesn’t take long for one open tab to become ten and a few minutes to become twenty. I’m engrossed in the information and swallow it up like a processor. My phone buzzes insistently from across the room. I studiously avoid looking in its direction.
Maybe if I don’t look at it … fuck. Anxiety slowly trickles in. I need to get going, but I’m nowhere close to being satisfied with what I’ve found out about Salem.
I need more.
Leverage. Secrets. Everything.
Old pictures of her in other people’s Facebook posts, most dated over a year ago, show a completely different girl from the one I met in the pantry. A happy Salem. Laughing, with her arms wrapped around a friend’s neck and a barbecue chicken leg in one fist.
Another one of her is on a pool floaty with a koozie in her hand. She’s wearing a red bikini that gives me very indecent ideas.
All I can do is shake my head, my thoughts spiraling.
The Salem I met wouldn’t get anywhere near a pool that five other people were swimming in or touch a chicken leg without a latex glove protecting her hand.
What the hell happened to you, Pantry Girl?
I crack my knuckles and lean forward. It’s time to fucking find out. When I hit the firewall of Willow Grove Psychiatric Institution, I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Shit. Am I willing to go this far for answers?
I scuff my index finger over the peeling sticker on the edge of my laptop, then sigh. I already know the answer. I’m more surprised by the fact I’m hesitating. Maybe it’s guilt? The idea that I’m violating her privacy and trust ? It’s never mattered any other time I’ve dug deep into someone’s background for one of my friends.
This is different; she is different.
This is why I need this information—whatever information I can find.
I push the guilt away and press on. It doesn’t take long to bypass the firewall. When I find the sealed files, I stop again. I could always ask her—or like a normal person, wait for her to tell me herself—but I don’t have the patience for that. Who knows how long that might take or if she would ever really tell me.
Obviously, there were rumors; there were always rumors, and I glossed over an article or two that was printed in the paper about what happened to her friend Chelsea. A tiny part of my brain tells me to stop. To leave it. But I can’t.
I’ve already come this far …
It takes seconds to open the files but much longer for my heart to drop back into the protective cage of my ribs after I finish reading. Shit. Poor Salem. Anger stirs in my chest, the desire to protect her, to make all those who hurt her suffer the same way they made her suffer.
My phone buzzes again, and I let out a sigh of frustration. Better check that or else. Rolling my eyes, I toss my laptop aside into the skewed bedding and get up to grab my phone. I stare at the screen, at the numerous texts cascading down, and read the most recent one from my mother.
Mother: I sincerely hope you are on the way.
I bite back a curse. Attending this bullshit family gathering is the last thing I want to do, but if I don’t show up, they’ll come find me, and that’s so much worse. Begrudgingly, I grab my car keys and head downstairs.
Fifty-five minutes after the first text, the familiar gates of Sterling Grove loom ahead, all wrought iron and old money pretension. The family crest, a lion rampant holding a crown, makes me roll my eyes every time. Nothing says “we’ve had money since the Civil War” quite like a custom-made family crest.
Five hundred feet of perfectly manicured driveway stretches before me. I could still turn around. Go back to bed. Move to Mexico. Start a new family line of Sterlings who actually know how to have fun.
My brain helpfully supplies images of sun-soaked beaches and tequila before skittering to the last time my mother got fed up with me. Six months at Promised Land Prayer Camp when I was sixteen. All because I kissed Tommy Rodriguez behind the gymnasium and some helpful soul informed the Sterling family patriarch that his grandson was “straying from God’s path.”
“Pray away the gay,” I mutter, hitting the gas a little harder than necessary. Gravel crunches under my tires, probably leaving marks on their precious driveway. “Because that worked out so well for everyone.”
Sterling House grows larger with each passing second, a looming Georgian monstrosity that’s been featured in more architectural magazines than I’ve had sexual partners—and that’s saying something. Every window feels like an accusation. Every perfectly trimmed hedge is another reminder of the Sterling family motto: Excellence Without Exception.
I check my phone. I’m three minutes late. Mother will have noticed. She notices everything except what matters. Like how many times I’ve traced the words carved above the library fireplace, “Sterling Men Lead, Sterling Women Breed,” and wanted to vomit.
The memory of Promised Land hits again—scratchy sheets, scripture readings, and group therapy where they made us list our sins. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory, but my mind’s already racing.
Wonder if Tommy ever came out?
Wonder if he’s happy?
Wonder if that girl from the pantry likes cherry-flavored anything else or if it was just whatever she drank that night?
Focus.
I park crookedly, taking up two spaces just because I can. Anything to piss them off a little more. The front door opens before I kill the engine, and there she stands. Katherine Sterling in all her perfectly coiffed glory, mouth already pinched in disapproval. As always, her gray hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her makeup minimal, her cream sweater set ironed to within an inch of its life.
“You’re late,” she calls out. “And what on earth are you wearing? The garden club is here for breakfast. What will they think?”
I glance down at my deliberately chosen outfit—ripped jeans, vintage band tee, and the leather jacket that made her cry when she first saw it. “Sunday best, Mother. Just for you. Gotta uphold the Sterling name and all that bullshit.”
Her sigh could wither the prize-winning roses she’s so proud of. I grin and bounce up the steps, ignoring the churning in my stomach that has nothing to do with my hangover. Time to face the firing squad. Wonder what brilliant plan they’ve cooked up this time to save the Sterling family reputation from their disappointment of a son.
Walking into the house always feels like stepping into a museum. Everything gleams—the marble floors, the crystal chandelier, the gilt-framed portraits of dead relatives judging me from every wall. The sound of my combat boots on the pristine floor makes Mother wince. Good.
“Your grandfather is waiting in the study,” she says, already fussing with my collar. I dodge her hands, my attention scattered between the ticking of the grandfather clock (two minutes fast, always has been), the murmur of voices from the breakfast room (garden club vultures, no doubt taking notes on the family scandal), and the way dust motes dance in the morning light streaming through the windows (when was the last time I slept a full night? ).
“Wonderful. Nothing says good morning like disappointing three generations at once.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, my filter apparently still drunk from last night.
Mother’s lips thin to nearly nothing. “Just … try to behave, Lee. This is important.”
I’m already moving, unable to stand still under her scrutiny. My fingers trail along the wainscotting as I walk—one, two, three panels until the doorway. An old habit from childhood, when counting things made this place feel less suffocating.
The study door looms at the end of the hall, solid oak and heavy with purpose. I can practically smell the brandy and privilege leaking out from under it. Through the wood, I hear my father’s voice, then Grandfather’s deeper tone. They’re undoubtedly discussing stock portfolios or which country club member’s daughter would make the best broodmare for their wayward heir.
My hand hesitates on the doorknob. The metal is cool against my palm, and I let it ground me for a moment. Behind me, Mother makes a small sound of impatience.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, too low for her to hear, and push open the door.
The study hits all my senses at once—leather and tobacco and old books, late morning sun casting shadows over the window seats, the steady tick-tick-tick of Father’s pretentious desk clock. Grandfather Sterling occupies his usual throne by the fireplace, looking like he just stepped out of a Rich White Men Monthly photo shoot. Father stands behind his massive desk, probably for maximum authoritative effect.
I drop into the leather chair across from the desk, deliberately sprawling. “Good morning, family. Lovely day for an intervention, isn’t it?”
Father’s jaw twitches. One point to me.
“Your sister’s engagement will be announced at the Autumn Sterling Foundation Charity Gala.” Grandfather’s voice fills the study like smoke, heavy and suffocating. My leg bounces, fingers drumming against my thigh as I try to focus on his words and not the way the clock keeps tick-tick-ticking or how Father’s pen scratches against paper.
“Fascinating. Good for Emma. Is that why you dragged me here at the ass crack of dawn? To tell me my sister’s finally making an honest man out of James? Not going to lie, I personally think this meeting could have been an email.”
Father clears his throat, and I grab a crystal paperweight off his desk, needing something to occupy my hands. “The charity gala is our most important social event, Lee.”
The paperweight catches the light, sending little rainbows dancing across the walls. Pretty. Wonder if that girl from the pantry likes rainbows. Focus. They’re still talking.
“Which is why,” Grandfather continues, “you will also be presenting your future partner that evening.”
The paperweight slips from my suddenly numb fingers. I catch it before it hits the floor, but just barely. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s time, Son.” Father’s voice has that practiced patience that makes me want to scream. “You’re twenty-four. This is important, for you, our family. You need to prove you’re capable of making responsible choices. That you’re stable.”
My laugh comes out sharp and decidedly not stable. “Responsible choices? Is that what we’re calling it now? Not ‘fixing the family disappointment’?”
“Lee Sterling.” Mother’s voice cracks like a whip. When did she move to stand behind my chair? “This isn’t about fixing anything. This is about your future.”
“My future?” The words taste bitter. “Or the future of Sterling Banking and Trust? Wouldn’t want anyone thinking the heir might be”—I wave my hand vaguely—“different.”
Grandfather stands, commanding attention like he always has. “You will find someone suitable. Someone who can help guide you toward your responsibilities. And you will present them at the gala.”
“And if I don’t?” The paperweight is warm in my palm now. I resist the urge to throw it.
“Then perhaps it’s time to consider other arrangements for the family legacy.” Father won’t meet my eyes. “Your trust fund, your position at the bank, your housing—all of it comes with certain expectations.”
The threat lands like a physical blow. My mind races through possibilities. No money means no safety net, no escape route. The walls feel closer suddenly, the tick-tick-tick of the clock drowning out everything else.
“You have three months,” Grandfather says like he’s doing me a favor. “Find someone appropriate or face the consequences.”
I stand so fast my chair tips backward. Mother catches it with practiced ease. It’s not the first time I’ve knocked something over in this room.
“Someone appropriate,” I echo, voice hollow. “And I suppose you already have candidates in mind? Some nice debutante who can pray away my demons and pop out perfect Sterling babies?”
No one denies it.
The worst part is, under the anger and panic, a small voice makes me wonder if they’re right. Maybe if I just tried harder, wanted different things, was different …
Fuck that voice.
The paperweight hits Father’s desk with a thunk that makes Mother jump. “Three months to find my very own conversion therapy spouse. How generous of you all.”
I’m out the door before they can respond, their voices blending with the tick-tick-tick of that fucking clock until I can’t hear anything else.
Three months to find someone who can convince the Sterling family I’m worth keeping.
Three months to save myself or lose everything.
Shit. I make it to my vehicle as my anger rides sharp through me.
My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel of my Jeep Wrangler, still parked in front of Sterling House. The urge to peel out, to further fuck up their preciously leveled gravel, burns through me. But I don’t move.
Can’t move.
My mind races in twelve different directions—trust fund digits flashing behind my eyes, the weight of generations of Sterling men pressing down on my chest, the memory of Promised Land’s scratchy sheets against my skin. I bounce my leg, trying to ground myself in the present, but everything feels too loud, too bright, too much.
Three months.
Find someone appropriate.
Someone suitable.
Someone who can fix me.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, edging toward hysterical. The garden club ladies are leaving now, their perfectly coiffed heads bobbing past my open Jeep like vultures. Probably already composing texts about Lee Sterling’s latest drama. The black sheep. The family disappointment. The one who can’t just be normal.
My phone buzzes. Drew.
Another buzz. Bel.
A third. Emma.
I ignore them all, pressing my forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel. Focus on breathing. In. Out. Don’t think about the walls closing in or the weight of expectations or how fucking unfair it all is.
A flash of memory hits—brown eyes in a dark pantry, gentle understanding without judgment. No expectations. No demands. Just the quiet acceptance of broken pieces.
I sit up so fast my head spins. Pantry Girl. The one person who might understand what it’s like to wear masks, navigate other people’s expectations, and be broken without needing to be fixed. It’s a terrible idea. Probably the worst I’ve had, and that’s saying something, considering last month’s naked skydiving incident.
But …
She needs something, too. I saw it in her eyes and heard it in the whispers at the party. She needs protection, legitimacy, a shield against whatever demons chase her through campus.
I could give her that. But I need an in first. I think back to the files and squeeze my eyes closed. Dr. Martinez was her doctor at Willow Grove, and by her letterhead, I noticed she also has a private outpatient practice. Might be something to check out. Give me a way to connect with her on a familiar level.
Fuck, if everything in those files is true, no wonder that happy girl broke under the strain. Losing so much so fast like she did. And by the notes on her home life, she’s not as accustomed to the push and pull of familial expectations as my friends and I are.
She could give me three months of freedom, three months to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life. There’s only one little hang-up. She’s definitely a runner, so getting her to agree to what I have in mind won’t be easy.
My phone buzzes again. It’s probably my mother with a list of suitable candidates—all daughters of her garden club cronies, I’m sure.
Fuck it.
I start the Jeep, its familiar rumble grounding me as my mind races ahead, plans forming and dissolving like smoke. It’s insane. It’s perfect. It’s probably going to blow up in both of our faces.
But anything’s better than letting them win.
Time to make sure my Pantry Girl gets an offer she can’t refuse.
The tires spit gravel as I finally peel out of Sterling Grove, the Jeep’s engine roaring in protest. In my rearview mirror, Mother stands in the doorway, one hand pressed to her throat.
Sorry, Mother. Your son’s about to disappoint you one more time.
Maybe it’ll be worth it this time.