Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“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.
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.