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)
The trust in that request steals my breath. Salem doesn’t let anyone in her space, not like this. Doesn’t break her careful patterns of isolation.
“Are you sure?” I don’t want to push her, especially after all that’s happened already. “I don’t want to leave, but I also don’t want to make things worse.”
She nods. “Noah’s clothes are dry. My bed is clean. And I …” Her voice drops lower. “I might sleep better when I can hear you breathing. When I can count your heartbeats.”
The air between us shifts, and I can’t explain it. It’s like a veil is being lifted. There will be no more pretending, no more hiding, no more measuring the space between fake and real.
Just us.
Together.
Salem’s entire body tenses, and she looks up at me, fear bleeding into her beautiful eyes. “What if I can’t handle touching? Tonight … earlier … was good, but what if there are times when I can’t?”
“Then we don’t touch. We don’t do anything until you’re ready. I want this Salem. I want you, and I want us, for real.”
“What if …” Her voice cracks. “What if I’m never normal again?”
“Salem.” I lift her gloved hand to my heart, letting her feel it race. “Normal is bullshit. This is real. Everything else is just counting time until we’re together.”
TWENTY-ONE
salem
The morning sun streams through the coffee shop windows, warming my usual corner table. For once, I don’t feel the need to count every beam of light, sugar packet, or person who walks by. Well, maybe I count a little, but it’s progress.
My phone buzzes with Lee’s third text in the last twenty minutes.
Lee: You sure you’re okay?
Lee: I can be there in ten minutes.
Lee: Five if I break speed limits.
I smile, adjusting my gloves before typing back.
Me: I’m fine. Go to class. Some of us need to graduate.
Me: Besides, I counted all the ceiling tiles yesterday. Still forty-three.
His response is immediate.
Lee: Forty-four if you count the half tile by the window.
Lee: Which I know you do.
Warmth that has nothing to do with tea spreads through my chest. He knows my patterns now, knows them so well, and he catches things that I miss sometimes. But today isn’t about patterns or counting or measuring space.
Today is about independence.
My gloved fingers wrap around the cup, and I take a moment to appreciate how far I’ve come. Three months ago, I couldn’t sit in public without counting and assessing every possible threat. Now, I can almost relax. It almost feels normal.
Lee: Sure you don’t want company?
Lee: I hate the idea of you alone.
Lee: What if someone touches you?
Lee: What if you need backup counting?
I type out a quick response while smiling.
Me: Lee Sterling, are you mother-henning me?
His response makes me laugh out loud.
Lee: No.
Lee: Maybe.
Lee: Okay, yes.
Lee: But only because I love watching you count sugar packets.
The L-word hangs there, casual and terrifying all at once. We haven’t said it yet, not really. Haven’t put that label on whatever this is between us. It’s there in the way he counts with me, the way he remembers my patterns, the way he makes me feel safe without making me feel broken.
Me: Go do your work. I’m okay.
Me: Really.
Me: Getting better every day.
The truth of that settles in my chest like sunshine. I am getting better. Still wearing gloves, still counting things, still measuring spaces—but better. Stronger. More confident.
My tea is at the perfect temperature when I take a sip. The table is clean. I only wiped it twice today instead of three times. The morning feels full of possibility instead of threat.
For once, I’m not counting or measuring the distance between myself and other customers. For once, I’m just … existing.
And it feels like victory.
“Well, if it isn’t the counting queen herself.”
My peaceful morning shatters at the sound of Marcus’s voice. He slides into the chair across from me uninvited, and his presence immediately disrupts my space.
“Please leave.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Progress.
“Aw, come on.” His smile is all teeth, no warmth. “Can’t I check in on my old friend? See how things are going with Sterling?”
My grip on the cup tightens. Don’t count. Don’t let him see you count. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
“I saw you at the gala,” he continues, leaning forward. “All dressed up in silk gloves, pretending to be something you’re not. Bet Sterling’s family loved that little performance. Almost as good as the one you gave freshman year.”
The memory lands like a punch to the gut. Freshman year. Chelsea.
“Don’t,” I whisper, the panic rising.
“You know what’s funny?” Marcus drums his fingers on the table, the rhythm making my skin crawl. “Chelsea used to defend you. Used to say you just needed time, needed understanding. Right up until that night.”
My vision blurs as my gaze darts around, desperate to find something I can use to count. The sugar packets. Ceiling tiles. Anything to stay present.