Page 88 of Dirty Mechanic

I blink up at the ceiling through tears I can’t feel anymore.

Because the truth is, I didn’t just betray him.

I betrayed us.

And if he never comes back through that door...

I’ll never forgive myself.

I sit there for another minute. Maybe more. Long enough for the storm to deepen into a steady roar outside, the wind sighing through the eaves like the house itself is grieving.

Then I stand. Slowly. Quietly. Like if I move too fast, I’ll break whatever fragile thing is still left inside me. The blanket slides from my shoulders. The chill finds me again, but I let it. I deserve to feel cold right now.

I grab my tote bag with the gun and move toward the back door, barefoot, every step across the floor a question.

Do I still belong here?

Do I still deserve him?

My fingers close around the knob. I pause. Listen for boots on gravel, for the sound of his truck rolling back in.

Nothing.

I push the door open.

The wind slaps me in the face, wet and wild. The rain’s still coming down, thick as curtain strings, but I make the dash across the yard, head bent, hair plastered to my cheeks. The RV looms like a memory in the dark.

Inside, it’s stuffy. Familiar. Still ours.

I sink onto the bench, my knees folding up beside me. The vinyl creaks beneath my weight, same as it used to. And for a split second, I’m back in motion—wind in my hair, my feet on the dash, and Derek laughing as I sing off-key, louder than the radio. I don’t remember the landscapes either. Just the way he looked at me like I was the whole damn view.

I stand in the center of the space and breathe.

This is where we found each other again.

Where I gave him my body, my fears, my name, even if he hadn’t given me his yet. Where we tangled in sheets and promises, and for a moment, the whole world faded to just us and the sound of his breath against my skin.

It’s also where the truth almost came out. Twice. And both times, I swallowed it back like poison.

I kneel and open the RV’s bench seat, fingertips searching in the dark. My breath catches when I find the journal exactly where I left it. I slip my hand inside the tote bag and my hand closes around the cool metal of the gun.

I set both items on the table with care, like sacred things. One for memory. One for survival.

I stare at them for a long time, the rain ticking louder on the roof, thunder growling somewhere distant.

Then I open the journal.

The pen shakes in my fingers. But I write.

If you’re reading this, Mike, know this: I am not the girl you blackmailed into signing those marriage papers.

Not the girl you burned out of her home, who flinched when you walked into a room.

You took everything—my freedom, my name, the people I loved.

You threatened Derek. You used fear like a weapon. You made me lie.

But you didn’t break me. You forged me.