Page 12 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

TEX

Brewer settles across from me on the bench outside Serenity House, nursing his shitty gas station coffee like we’re just two guys chatting about the weather and not my wreck of a life.

But I can’t sit still. My leg’s bouncing, I can’t stop sweating despite there being zero humidity, and the adrenaline from what happened is still rotting in my chest.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I finally mutter, dragging my fingers through my hair. “I mean, I’m so sick of myself. Sick of the games I play with guys. The flirting, the hookups, pretending like it doesn’t eat me alive after.”

Brewer raises an eyebrow but stays quiet.

“I tell myself it’s harmless, that I’m just…

having fun, whatever. But it’s not. I feel like shit every time.

Worse than shit. I feel used , even though I’m the one doing the using.

” My throat tightens. “And the worst part? I still do it. I keep doing it. I keep letting people touch me when I don’t even want them to , not really. I just?—”

I pause, swallowing hard.

Brewer sets his cup down. “You’re not talking about sex, Tex. You’re talking about control.”

I nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I didn’t get to say no, back then. You know that. So now it’s like… I keep trying to flip the script. Be the one who chooses. But it never works. I just end up back in the same hole. Feeling dirty and hollow.”

Brewer leans forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s using behavior.”

The words sting more than they should. “I haven’t relapsed.”

“You haven’t used drugs. But you’ve been chasing that same emptiness-filler.

Sex, validation, approval from people who don’t see the real you.

Same impulse. Same void.” He gives me a steady look.

“We don’t just work the steps to stay clean.

We work them to find forgiveness. With ourselves.

You can’t build self-esteem while you’re practicing toxic behavior that tells you you’re not worth better. ”

That breaks me. Just shatters me right there.

I cover my face with my hands and feel the tears finally come, hot and ugly and aching. My breath hitches. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” I whisper. “I don’t want to keep proving them right.”

Brewer sits quietly for a long moment. Then he places a hand on my shoulder, firm and grounding.

“Then stop proving them right. Let’s work the steps. All of them. Let’s rebuild. You deserve that.”

I nod, still crying. “I’ll stop. I swear. No more hookups. No more letting people treat me like I’m disposable. No more treating myself like I’m disposable.”

“Good.” Brewer gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll start again tomorrow. Pick up where we left off. Step Four. You ready?”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

And for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually mean it.

I light a candle that smells like toasted marshmallows and flop onto my bed in my favorite pajamas, the purple ones with sleepy cartoon clouds and tiny crescent moons.

The matching top is cropped just enough to show a sliver of my stomach, and the pants are baggy with little smiley faces on the knees.

I know I look ridiculous, but that’s kind of the point.

I like feeling soft and silly sometimes. It’s safe. I’m manifesting happiness.

My “Feelings Journal”—yes, that’s what it says in sparkly bubble letters—is bright purple with sequins on the spine.

I found it in the clearance bin at a stationery store, probably meant for a tween, and I knew immediately it was mine.

It even has a little lock on the front, though anyone with a paperclip and ten seconds could break in.

Doesn’t matter. It feels private. Sacred.

I curl up under my weighted blanket, cocoa in one hand, pen in the other.

The mug is shaped like a cat’s face. It belongs to Nash, so I guess it’s supposed to resemble Valor.

The ears stick out on either side, and the handle is a tail.

Brewer says writing your inventory is supposed to be hard, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make it cute .

On the first page I write:

Step Four: A searching and fearless moral inventory.

Ugh.

I stare at the page for a long time, the cocoa warming my fingers. I take a sip, slurping loudly because it’s hot. Then write:

I’m afraid I’ll find out I’m not a good person. That all the bad stuff done to me somehow made me bad, too. That every time I flirted when I didn’t want to, or slept with someone who reminded me of the worst nights of my life, I was proving it.

But Brewer says I’m not broken. Just hurt. And maybe healing means shining a light on all the places I’ve tried to bury.

I blink at the page, then keep going, writing about the things I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt, myself included.

How I used my body like a shield, a weapon, a bargaining chip.

How I hurt Mandy by letting him think he didn’t matter because I was too scared to believe someone like him could love someone like me.

Halfway down the page, I pause to add a little doodle in the corner. A glittery cactus in a cowboy hat. No real reason. Just feels right.

When my hands cramp from writing, and the candle’s almost burned down, I close the journal and tuck it under my pillow like I’m twelve and it’s my diary full of secrets I don’t want my older brother to find.

Rolling onto my side, I pull the blanket up to my chin and stare at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. My brain’s tired, but my heart won’t shut up.

I wonder what Mandy’s doing right now.

Maybe he’s at home, sitting in that creaky recliner he refuses to replace, staring at the muted TV. Maybe he’s got one of those protein shakes in hand instead of dinner. Maybe he’s working through all the ways he hates himself.

God, I hope not.

I hope he’s doing what I just did. Sitting still with it. Looking his demons in the eye instead of trying to outrun them with workouts and camaraderie and stubborn silence. I hope he’s finally letting himself feel something, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

I hope he’s realizing he’s not a monster. That losing control doesn’t make him dangerous, it makes him human . That he’s not just scars and shadows and that awful blast that stole pieces of him.

Mandy’s warm and gentle and stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s the guy who watches over me like I’m worth protecting. Who’d fight off ghosts and assholes and probably the damn Grim Reaper if it meant keeping me safe.

But he’s afraid. Of what he’s capable of. Of what he feels. Of me , maybe.

I hug the pillow tighter. I don’t want him to be afraid of himself anymore.

I want him to see what I see. The man who makes me feel safe just by sitting beside me. The man whose laugh feels like a sunrise. The man who thinks he’s too broken to love, but who makes me feel like I’m not broken at all.

I want to be patient. Give him time. But I also want him to fight for himself the way he fought for me. Because if he ever lets himself love me… really love me… I’ll never stop showing him that he’s worth it.

All of it. Even the scary parts.

Assuming I can be just as brave and allow myself to be loved.