14. Salem
FOURTEEN
salem
It wasn’t as awkward as I imagined it would be to have sex with my fake boyfriend. I was more embarrassed about the fact that I had taken his medication and acted so boldly.
Yeah, it was terrifying but also exhilarating, and it proved to me that I was still normal, not completely broken. That’s what I think about as I watch the sunlight filtering through the coffee shop windows, the rays catching on Lee’s eyelashes and making them look almost golden as he dozes off in the chair across from me. It’s been a week, and it hasn’t happened again, nor have we discussed it.
I watch him openly, but only because he’s partially asleep. I would never be brave enough to do such a thing if he were awake. In my mind, there is nothing more that I could possibly be embarrassed about, not after I let him see me naked and basically begged him to fuck me, but that’s a lie. I’m still bashful and insecure in his presence.
Unlike him, it’s difficult for me to be as open with my emotions and thoughts. Sometimes I envy him. Other times, I wonder what consequences there must be for always baring your heart to the world.
My gaze cuts from his eyelashes to roam over his strong jawline and finally the tendons in his throat. I bite my bottom lip, thinking about pressing kisses against his throat again.
As if I would ever be brave enough to do such a thing of my own volition?
His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that I find myself counting without meaning to.
One, two, three breaths.
Again.
Again.
I adjust my calculus textbook three millimeters to the left, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table. Lee cleaned the surface for me when we arrived—three careful swipes with sanitizing wipes. He made no complaints and asked no questions, just like he’s done every day for the past two months.
Two months of pretending.
Two months of counting together.
Two months of trying to convince myself this is still fake.
I don’t think I can make that argument after the other day. It doesn’t feel fake anymore.
He shifts in his sleep, locks of dark hair falling across his forehead, and my fingers itch to brush them back. Get a grip, Salem. I clench them in my lap instead, the nitrile squeaking.
The sound makes the sides of his mouth lift in a small smile, even unconscious. It’s crazy how attuned to my habits he is, recognizing the small sounds of my anxiety even when he’s asleep, like they’re his own soundtrack.
“I can feel you counting my breaths, Pantry Girl,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.
Oh god. He caught me .
I have no reason to be embarrassed, yet heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not?—”
“Thirty-seven in the past five minutes.” His smile grows. “Plus fifteen times you’ve adjusted your book and at least twenty glances at the ceiling.”
“That’s not fair. I thought you were sleeping.”
“Not quite. I can hear your thoughts, almost as if you’re saying them out loud.” He cracks one eye open, storm-gray and amused. “And of course I wouldn’t mind taking you back to my bed, spreading you out, and feasting on your …”
“Stop it right now!” My cheeks burn red hot, but the twinkle of mischief in his eye tells me he’s far from finished. “I was not thinking about what we did,” I whisper the last part as if we aren’t at a university where sex and alcohol are a part of the daily curriculum. I need to find a way to mask my expressions better.
I blink and ensure my face is clear of all emotion, but I still can’t get the thoughts out of my head. I can still feel his mouth on my skin, the way he turned the heat inside me into an inferno I haven’t been able to quench since that day.
He lifts a brow as if to say, liar, liar, but doesn’t call me out. “Fine, then I’ll answer another question I’m sure you want to ask.”
“And what’s that?”
“How I escaped The Mill?”
All I do is roll my eyes even though the mention of the Oakmount estate makes something twist in my chest. He’d shown up this morning with dark circles under his eyes and a triumphant grin, announcing he’d finally found his own apartment.
Freedom, he had called it. I was curious to know what that freedom had cost him because nothing in life was actually free. I doubt he noticed how I counted the bruises on his knuckles—four distinct marks. Did he and his father get into a fight? Or did he punch the wall? I couldn’t say that I wasn’t proud or happy for him. I’m sure it took a lot of effort and bravery to do what he did, but I was also afraid of what type of impact being on his own might have on him. Lee is social. He needs the light on him, but not so much that it suffocates him.
“The Mill is not a prison. You didn’t escape it.” I shake my head at his dramatics. “Is there a reason for the bags under your eyes? Have you not been sleeping? Maybe you should go home and sleep …” I tell him, but we both know I don’t mean it. These quiet moments in the coffee shop have become our sanctuary. Our bubble of safety where we can just be us.
“I am home.” He stretches, and the motion causes his shirt to rise, exposing a strip of muscled skin on his abdomen. I can’t help but stare. “Wherever you are, counting things and making that adorable squeaking sound with your gloves. That’s my home.”
My heart stutters. “Please don’t say things like that.”
“Why?” Lee cocks his head to the side.
“Because you should only say things like that to someone you’re in love with, who you want to be with long-term. They aren’t meant for our situation. We’re still technically fake .” I lower my voice and whisper the last word.
Lee frowns. “I don’t care what is real or fake, Salem. All I know is how I feel about you, and I won’t mask those feelings. I won’t hide them, not even for you.”
No. No. He can’t talk like this . Can’t think like this. I should’ve known having sex would complicate things, but at that moment, I was trying to be brave and normal. I wanted him, and he wanted me, but now I feel like what we did, what we shared, was a mistake. Just another obstacle I’ve put in front of us.
“I don’t want you to hide how you feel, Lee, but don’t turn this into something it’s not. That it can’t be.”
I don’t miss the tight clench of his jaw or the way his gaze flashes irritation. He wants to disagree with me, to fight back, but even he knows this can’t ever become real. Not wanting to ruin our time together, I go a different route.
“You sanitized the table three times today,” I whisper, needing to focus on facts instead of feelings. “You never used to do that. I always did it unless you got here before me.” Something pings in my brain. Am I ruining him? Forcing him into my habits even though he doesn’t need them—not the same way I need them, anyway?
“People change. They pick up new habits. For example, they allow a certain someone to talk them into trying oat milk for the first time.”
“That’s totally not fair. Oat milk isn’t that bad.” I interject.
“Oh really? Says the girl who orders the same thing every time.” He rolls his eyes and gives me a panty-melting smirk.
Be still my heart.
“Trying new things is good sometimes.” I blink back at him, trying not to show the effect his smile and charm have on me but failing miserably. It’s impossible not to be affected by this man. It’s like he sucks all the oxygen out of the room.
“I’ll remember that next time I tell you we’re going on a date somewhere that you’ve never been before.” He sits up a little straighter and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. Lee’s raw beauty is impossible to ignore.
“I think you might be rubbing off on me, Pantry Girl. Or maybe …” He leans in, his closeness giving me heart palpitations. “I just like the way you look when everything’s perfect. A certain type of calm washes over me whenever we’re together, and I know it sounds stupid, but it makes me believe we can overcome anything if we stick together.” The sincerity in his voice, the emotion … it makes my chest ache.
“Lee, I won’t be able to do this if the lines between fake and real continue to blur.” I’ve been at risk of falling for him since the day we met in that dark pantry, and every day that passes, I find myself growing closer to him, waiting for the next moment when I’ll see him.
“The line between real and fake disappeared the day you let me eat that pretty pussy of yours.” Oh god. His mouth. I can’t believe he just said that. “I doubt there’s any going back now… not when your juices have coated my chin.”
“Lee!” I start to scold him and plan to tell him off, but then the bell above the coffee shop entrance chimes.
Marcus Chen walks in, and the moment shatters like a piece of glass.
“Well, if it isn’t the campus crazy and her boyfriend .”
Marcus’s voice carries across the coffee shop like a poisonous gas, seeping into my carefully constructed peace. I don’t understand how I can go from okay to distraught and panicked in seconds. My hands tremble, and the nitrile gloves squeak as I clench, then unclench them. I need something to do with my hands. I pluck the pencil I placed beside my textbook off the table and roll it between my fingers.
“Ignore him,” Lee murmurs, suddenly wide awake.
His body tenses like a coiled spring, but he doesn’t move from his relaxed position. He’s protecting me without making it obvious.
Marcus takes a seat at a nearby table with two of his friends. I do my best to ignore their existence, counting through their laughter as it floats around me.
“Remember freshman year, guys? When the freaks all stuck together?”
Freaks? He says it like he wasn’t one of us. That was before he joined the football team the year after everything happened. I try my best not to let my thoughts drift to that night, that moment when everything changed.
Don’t think about freshman year. Don’t think about Chelsea.
It feels like someone has wrapped a noose around my neck. My airway closes up, making it difficult to breathe as the rope tightens further and further …
“Hey, Salem.” Marcus’s voice meets my ears, but I don’t look at him. I’m trying to stay calm, trying to control the panic. “Have you heard from your doctor lately? Oh wait …”
The pencil in my hand snaps, the sound echoing through the mostly quiet space. I look down at the pieces, but all they do is remind me of how broken I am. Of how broken everything is, and the memories from that night threaten to resurface. Lee’s hand appears in my vision, collecting the fragments, his movements precise and gentle.
“That’s it,” he whispers, low enough only I can hear. “Focus on my hands. Count with me.”
One piece of broken pencil.
Two tissues to wrap them in.
Three seconds before Marcus speaks again.
“Awwww. Chelsea would be so proud,” Marcus continues, each word calculated to hurt. “Her best friend, hooking up with one of the football players. One of the Oakmount elite at that.”
A memory filters back, and I can’t stop it.
My phone vibrating across my dresser with text after text. If I had looked at my phone that night, read those messages, if I had been there, then maybe …
“Enough.” Lee’s razor-edged tone cuts him off.
He hasn’t moved, hasn’t even turned around, but his tone makes Marcus’s words die in his throat. Without anything to distract me, more memories flood into my mind, pressing against my skull like a vise.
Chelsea’s laugh. Her bright smile. The way she used to defend me before … before …
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” Lee’s voice is a gentle stroke against my cheek, slowly pulling me back toward reality, but there’s no escaping the past when the present is a direct consequence of those actions.
This strange sound escapes my throat, and I realize I’m gasping for air.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m losing control.
Marcus stands, taking deliberate steps toward our table. “Can’t breathe, huh?”
I can breathe, but it feels like I can’t. I know it’s in my head. I think back to all the therapy I did, all the sessions with Dr. Martinez. My lungs burn, and my chest aches, pain radiating through it with every beat of my heart.
Find something to ground yourself.
“Guess you know what it feels like to be in Chelsea’s place then, huh?” Marcus’s words, his voice, all of it is like little needles poking into my skin.
I need this to end, need him to leave, or else I need to leave, but my legs … I try to lift them, to force myself to move, but they might as well weigh ten thousand pounds. “Does your boyfriend know about what happened that night? Why everyone hates you?”
“I’m warning you, Marcus. Walk away now, or I’m kicking your fucking ass,” Lee growls at Marcus but keeps his gaze on me. I can visibly see his muscles coiling, tighter and tighter. He might look unaffected, but it’s obvious, at least to me, that he’s close to exploding. “Breathe, Pantry Girl. One, two, three.”
But I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t stop the fragments of memory from splintering through the cracks.
Chelsea’s voice: I love these cliffs. They always feel like coming home.
Marcus’s laugh as he kissed her cheek.
Chelsea crying about him not texting or calling or acknowledging her at football events.
My gloves squeak against the table as I press them to the wood, trying to ground myself. Lee notices—he always notices—and shifts, putting his body between Marcus and me without being obvious about it.
“I’m not scared of you, Lee. Your name might get you the royal treatment from others, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“We’ll see about that.” There’s a warning woven in Lee’s response.
“Be warned, Sterling, whatever that girl touches, she destroys, so be careful, or you might end up just like Chelsea.”
I won’t lie. It hurts to hear him say such a terrible thing, but I can’t change his feelings or thoughts about me. Therapy helped me realize that I’m not the problem for Marcus. I’m just the easiest available outlet for his anger, but that doesn’t make anything he says true.
Turning, he retreats to his table without looking back.
“Piece of fucking shit,” Lee mutters under his breath. His body is drawn tight, like a bowstring, and even if he wears a look of rage on his face, he stays beside me, remaining in a protective position.
He reaches across the table and gently unfolds my clenched fingers.
“Talk to me,” he whispers, and for a moment, I want to tell him everything.
About Chelsea. About that night. About why I count things and wear gloves and the real reason I can’t stop being afraid.
Except when I open my mouth, the words don’t come out. They stick in my throat, trapped behind two years of silence, therapy, and walls that I built to protect myself.
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes.
No, I will not cry. I will not give him that satisfaction. Tipping my head back, I stare at the ceiling and count the tiles, waiting for the feeling to subside. And Lee, wonderful, patient Lee, counts with me.
It’s brief moments like this that make me question if this could really be real? But then the bubble bursts when reality reminds me of how messed up I already am and how one perfect moment together doesn’t mean we magically fit together.
Lee doesn’t ask questions when I stumble to my feet. Instead, he smoothly rises with me. His body remains perfectly angled between Marcus and me, a shield I didn’t ask for but one I desperately need. My quick, jerky movements make the books scatter across the table, perfect order dissolving like my sanity.
“I need …” The words catch in my throat. What do I need?
Space? Air? Time to rewind two years so I can save Chelsea?
“Outside,” Lee suggests, already gathering my things with careful precision. He remembers the order—textbooks largest to smallest, notebooks by subject, pencils aligned by length. When did he learn these things about me?
Marcus’s laughter follows us toward the door. “Can’t run away from all your problems.”
I’ve barely made it outside and out of view when my legs give out beneath me. I’m not sure how, but Lee catches me before I hit the ground; his arms circle my waist, and he pulls me into his chest. His strength and warmth encompass me, and his rich, masculine scent cradles me. He walks us to a nearby bench, holding me tight to his chest.
It still surprises me that his touch doesn’t set me off or send me into further panic. Skin contact always makes me nuclear—but not Lee’s. Whenever he touches me, I come apart, excitement replacing the usual fear because I know deep down Lee cares.
“Chelsea was my friend,” I whisper into his chest. The words taste like copper and fear. “She was … we were …”
“You don’t have to tell me.” His deep timbre vibrates across my skin.
He says I don’t have to tell him, but I do. Maybe that’s what I need. To speak the truth so that the memories will stop haunting me. Stop eating me alive from the inside out.
“Marcus wasn’t there, either.” My voice sounds strange, distant. “That night. At the party. Chelsea wanted me to go with her, but I couldn’t. She told me I needed to stop being so afraid, stop letting my anxiety control me.” A sob catches in my throat. “I didn’t go with her, and I regret it every minute of every day now.”
The pressure on my chest becomes lighter the more I speak.
“Chelsea trusted me … trusted us.”
Lee doesn’t push when I trail off. He doesn’t demand the full story. Just holds me while I shake apart, his body between me and the rest of the world.
“I can’t,” I finally whisper. “I can’t tell you everything. Not yet.”
“Okay.” He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, his touch careful. “Whenever you’re ready. Or never. It’s your story to tell.”
The simple acceptance in his voice breaks something in my chest. This isn’t how fake boyfriends act. This isn’t what we agreed to. This is too real, too raw, too much.
“Lee …”
“Shh.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Just breathe. Count with me.”
And even though I can’t tell him the rest—how her loss sent me into a spiral, how Marcus blamed me for her death, and how I spent six months in a psychiatric facility counting ceiling tiles—I let him hold me.
Let him pretend this is just part of our arrangement.
Let myself pretend I’m not falling in love with him.
“Forty-three tiles on the ceiling inside,” he says softly, giving me something concrete to focus on. “Plus twelve light fixtures. Twenty-seven steps to the bathroom. Nine sugar packets in the caddy at our table.”
I close my eyes, letting his voice wash over me. When did he start noticing these things? When did he start counting just to make me feel safe?
Then it’s both his voice and the soft heat of his breath on my cheek, then my neck, the slightest nibble of his teeth on my earlobe. I start to feel flush, and a warmth creeps over my cheeks. I exhale hard, the fog in my brain shifting, morphing into something I can actually handle, actually deal with. “What are you …?”
“Shhhh, Pantry Girl, I’m focusing.” His mouth traces across mine once, twice, three times, then he cups the back of my neck and kisses me like he’s trying to consume my soul. It’s enough to draw me out of my head and into my body. I give in to the kiss and fall into the wet, warm sweep of his lips against mine.
My core tightens, and my skin catches fire as his fingers dig into the hair at the nape of my neck and pull tight. Oh god. How can I feel his touch deep inside me? I moan into his mouth, and he matches it, giving as much as he can and taking the same. I grip the fabric of his shirt, wishing we were alone and back in his bedroom instead of on this bench in front of the coffee shop. And then, as fast as it starts, it ends. He breaks the kiss, and I find myself gasping, needing his lips on mine because they’re the only form of oxygen available.
“Salem?” His voice is rough, and the way he says my name, with so much uncertainty… it’s like he’s asking me a question without asking it.
“Stop.” I squeeze his hand. “Just don’t … don’t say anything else that will complicate things further.” He exhales slowly, and I feel him nod. We both know we’re past complicated, past fake, past whatever boundaries we set two months ago. But acknowledging it will mean facing truths that neither of us are truly ready for.
“Kiss me again,” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask questions, only kisses me again, this time nibbling my bottom lip with his teeth until I’m clenching my thighs tightly, needing more, wanting everything.
How does he do this? Each touch short-circuits my brain, turning the anxiety and fear off, so all I can think about is the sensation of him against me. When he breaks away this time, he presses his forehead into mine, and we’re both panting softly.
He continues to hold me, his body curled protectively around mine, pretending this is normal. Pretending his touch doesn’t set my skin on fire even through the gloves. Pretending this is still just an arrangement. Behind us is the coffee shop, and I count the bricks around the windows to slow my racing heartbeat.
“Twenty-five bricks per row,” I murmur.
“Times twelve rows,” he adds.
“Three hundred total.”
His lips quirk up. “Unless you count the half bricks at the ends.”
“Do you?” I ask, meaning so much more than bricks.
“Count the broken pieces?” His eyes meet mine, full of understanding. “Every single one.”
We stay there, kissing and occasionally counting, aware we’re avoiding bigger truths. Both of us aware that, at some point, we’ll have to face what this really is. What we really are. But for now, we keep pretending and telling ourselves we aren’t falling in love.