Page 24 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

“We should burn it,” I say.

“What?” she asks, startled. She’s unzipping the duffel bag now, stacks of cash spilling into view like it’s nothing more than old clothes. She grabs several stacks of cash.

“The car. The dress. All of it.”

She stops moving. Her hand lingers on the zipper, eyes flicking toward mine.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.” She stares at the crumpled gown, and then she laughs. “At one point, I thought about putting it in neutral and pushing it off a cliff, but I didn’t want anyone to believe I was dead. That would cause too much commotion.”

“Wait right here,” I tell her.

I head inside without a word and walk straight to the closet in my bedroom. I reach for a small duffel and the aluminum bat that’s leaning in the corner. It’s old, scratched, and dented from years of backyard use, but it’s reliable.

I carry it back out to the front yard, where she’s standing, staring down at the black Camaro like it insulted her.

“What’s that for?” she asks. “The bat, not the bag.”

Quickly, she puts the cash inside.

Then I hold the aluminum bat out to her, grip first. “It’s his car, right?”

She stares at it like it’s a snake.

“Yeah. He loved it more than he ever loved me.” Her tone is bitter, but there’s something beneath it, like pain.

“Well,” I say, nodding toward the Camaro, “seems only fair you give it a proper goodbye.”

She hesitates. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” I say. “He wrecked you. What’s the difference?”

She takes the bat slowly, like it might burn her palms, and holds it for a second. The first swing is hesitant, but it’s enough to knock the driver’s side mirror clean off. She jerks from the sound, but something shifts in her eyes. She steps forward again, and this time, she doesn’t hold back.

The driver’s window explodes with the next hit, glass falling in sheets across the leather. She rounds the car like she’s got a checklist. Every window. Every mirror. A dent down the passenger door.

She’s not crying, but the power behind every swing says enough.

I cross my arms, watching her destroy what it represents. The betrayal. The lies. The hollow future she almost walked into, wearing white. She’s not only leaving dents and breaking glass, but she’s also breaking out of the hold her ex had on her.

When she finally stops, the bat clatters to the ground. Her shoulders rise and fall, hands trembling, chest heaving like she’s outrunning every version of herself that was still holding on.

I move closer, and she turns to me, cheeks flushed, hair falling from its tie.

“I feel better,” she says, breathless, pleased by her havoc.

“Love to hear it,” I tell her.

She lets out a laugh that’s halfway to a sob. “Payback is a bitch.”

I reach for her hand and kiss her knuckles. “He doesn’t get to have any power over you anymore,” I say. “Not here. Not now.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You sure you’re good?”

She glances over her shoulder at the wreckage. “I am now.”

“Great. Let’s get the fuck outta here,” I tell her.

I open the passenger door to my truck, and she slides in, chest rising and falling, but there is a lightness to her.

I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.

The old truck rumbles to life, and we ease down the gravel driveway, the tires crunching over sunbaked stone as the house disappears behind us.

The windows are down. The air smells like fresh grass and hay.

She leans into the door, one elbow resting on the window frame, her other hand clutching her phone, like she’s trying not to look at it.

Not able to resist, she unlocks the screen, taps, and scrolls.

Her posture shifts almost immediately. It’s small, a tightening of her shoulders, and it’s like she’s trying to brace against something.

She doesn’t make a sound, but the energy in the cab changes fast. It goes from soft and easy to something dangerous.

I keep one hand on the wheel, and the other reaches for hers.

“You good?” I ask as our fingers interlock together.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she swallows and locks her phone, placing it face down on her lap.

“I searched myself,” she says. “I shouldn’t have.”

I glance over at her with furrowed brows. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“New articles about me were posted. They’re lying about me and saying I’m having a mental breakdown, that I’ve been unstable for weeks.

” She pauses. “I’m pissed .” Her jaw tightens, and she blinks hard, like she’s trying to push the sting back where it came from.

“They’re rewriting what really happened.

They’re rewriting the whole damn story because I’m easy to villainize. ”

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. I don’t know what I dislike more—that people are lying about her or that she’s been carrying this alone since she walked out on what should’ve been the happiest day of her life.

“Fuck ’em,” I say. “The truth always comes out. You’ll make it through this triumphantly. Promise.” I pull into the parking lot outside the shelter. “And if not, I’ll happily kick someone’s ass,” I offer.

“Not needed,” she says, chuckling, then finally turns her head to meet my gaze. “Thank you for everything. For accepting me and my mess.”

“I’m not here to fix you, darlin’. I want to be the man who stands beside you while you figure it out.”

“You’re not real,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Ah, well, I can guarantee I’m not a figment of your imagination,” I say, and her smile is enough for now.