Page 24 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

It takes me twenty minutes to decide on a shirt.

Not because I’m feeling particularly fashionable today, though West did say I should try to wear something “optimistic,” but because nothing feels right.

Everything brushes too hard against sensitive skin or clings too close to where my body feels foreign.

In the end, I throw on a loose thermal that hides most of the damage and pretend I’m not sweating through it.

“Looking good, hot stuff,” West says from the hallway, the way you talk to a nervous dog before taking it to the vet. “You ready?”

“No,” I answer honestly, clutching the doorframe like it might try to run off without me.

He smiles, eyes soft. “You don’t have to be. You just have to show up.” West is already halfway down the hall, keys in hand. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and we’re taking my car.”

“The hell we are,” I mutter, grabbing my phone. His Jeep smells like gym socks and moldy takeout. “We’re taking mine.”

West blinks. “Mandy, your Mini Cooper is a clown shoe on wheels. I don’t fit in it.”

“You fit last time.”

“I folded like Rhett’s origami last time. Brandt bruises me up enough when we fuck. I don’t need to get pounded by your car too.”

I roll my eyes. “Dramatic.”

He points at me. “You’re healing from surgery, and I refuse to unfold you like a lawn chair when we get to the doctor’s office. I’m driving. Shotgun or nothing.”

I grumble the whole way to the passenger seat but climb in anyway, because, unfortunately, he’s right. Again.

In the exam room, the fluorescent lights don’t feel as loud as they did last time. I keep waiting for the bottom to drop out, for the panic to curl up my spine like smoke, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the presence of West beside me. Maybe I’m just too tired to unravel today.

Dr. Ellis unwraps the gauze over my cheek with gentle fingers and clicks her tongue. “Looking good, Mr. Cahill. Very good. Graft’s taking beautifully. We’ll let the tissue breathe now and start letting some air to it.”

“Air?” I croak.

She smirks. “The thing you’ve been breathing your whole life? Yes. That.”

I don’t laugh, but West does. No bandage means more eyes. Maybe not, maybe the gauze was a beacon for attention, but it feels that way to me, like I’m exposing myself.

The shirt I chose today has a low-cut neckline, which I don’t usually opt for.

I like collars that hide my neck, but I’ve got Tex’s voice in my head, telling me I’m not beautiful, but badass, and that I shouldn’t hide myself.

Every word was probably a bold-faced lie, but I’m feeling more confident after that kiss.

Half kiss… Ridiculous excuse for a kiss.

The lobby of BALLS smells like espresso and peanut butter cookies thanks to Margaret Anne.

It’s warm inside, safe in a way that’s hard to describe.

Still, I tug at my neckline, tug at my sleeve.

I can feel the burn pattern curling up my neck like a vine, and no matter how well it’s healing, I hate knowing it’s visible.

People don’t mean to stare, but they do.

Their eyes pause. Wonder. Recoil. Pretend not to.

But here, in this group of bent and bandaged, crooked and cracked, nobody pretends. Nobody turns away. They just scoot over and make room.

“Hey Mandy,” Nash says. “Glad you came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Yeah, we figured.” He pats the empty seat next to him. “But you did. That counts.”

I tug out my half-finished knitting project—Tex’s socks, needles already tangled in the mess of purple yarn.

Around me, the group hums with easy chatter.

Someone complains about the humidity. Someone else gripes about their last VA appointment.

There’s a minor debate over whether worsted weight was included in that online sale.

Then, like it always does, the current shifts.

Voices soften. Postures loosen. The bullshit fades, and something quieter settles in. Something heavier, truer. The kind of silence that means someone’s about to say the thing they swore they wouldn’t.

Riggs asks, “What have you lost that you still miss?”

The room goes still. My breath lodges in my throat. But I surprise myself when I speak.

“My reflection,” I say. “Not the physical one, not really. But the way I used to look at myself and recognize who I was. I used to have this…this sense of identity. I could look in the mirror and see a man who survived a war, who was confident in his job, who had a life. Now I look and I see everything I lost instead.”

West murmurs, “Yeah.” And Nash nods.

I go on, because something in me needs to. “But lately… I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not about getting back to who I was. Maybe it’s about building someone new. Stitch by stitch. Like these damn socks.”

I lift them up. “They’re not perfect. But they’re for someone who sees past that.”

West gives me a small, proud smile. And I realize my hands aren’t shaking anymore.

“I’m trying to let someone love me,” I admit, voice tight. “And it feels like I’m trying to sew silk with barbed wire. I keep poking holes in something beautiful.”

There's a hush, and Nash hands me a half-finished granny square like it’s an emotional support object or a tissue I should wipe my leaking eyes with.

Stiles says, “Love is uneven socks,” and I feel the corners of my mouth twitch.

“I didn’t think I was gonna come today,” I admit. My voice shakes, and I try to knit past it, try to loop and pull and loop and pull, but my hands don’t cooperate. “But West reminded me I didn’t have to be ready. Just had to show up.”

West gives me a tiny smile from across the circle.

“It’s the first time I’ve left the house since surgery. First time… out in public with my face looking like this.”

“I hate how much it still hurts,” I tell them. “How much I wish I could rewind time and undo everything. Or maybe fast forward past the part where I feel like a stranger in my own body. I know I’m lucky to be alive. I know that. But some days, it’s hard to feel lucky.”

I look down again. The yarn’s damp. My hands are shaking worse than I thought.

“I miss who I used to be. I miss walking down the street without worrying who’s looking at me.

I miss not recoiling when I catch myself in the mirror.

But more than anything, I miss not feeling like a burden.

I miss not being afraid that the people who love me are gonna wake up one day and realize I’m too much work. Too much damage.”

The silence stretches, like everyone’s holding space for the next hard truth.

“But mostly I hate being afraid to love.” I sniff and swipe at my nose with my sleeve. “I guess I just needed to say that out loud.”

“Thank you for sharing,” Riggs says gently. And then the others start chiming in, sharing stories that mirror mine in a hundred ways. Different details, same pain.

And somehow, in the telling, it all feels a little less lonely.

“I lost most of my hearing in a blast,” Brandt says. “You all know that. Eardrums shredded, nerves damaged. They gave me these.” He taps the hearing aid nestled behind each ear. “Told me I’d have to learn to live with the static, the volume fluctuations. The isolation.”

He clears his throat. “What they didn’t tell me was how loud silence gets.

When you can’t hear, you start to imagine things.

You imagine what you’re missing. The jokes you didn’t catch.

The tones of voice. The way someone said your name.

You start to think… maybe people are laughing at you instead of with you.

Maybe they’re annoyed. Maybe they’re tired of repeating themselves.

You don’t want to ask again, so you stop asking.

And pretty soon, you just stop talking.”

His fingers twist the yarn in his lap into a tight coil.

“I used to be loud,” he says. “I was the loud guy. The laugh-too-hard guy. Not as loud as West, of course, but I used to sing in the truck, off-key and shameless. Now I barely speak up unless someone’s looking right at me.

Sometimes I fake it. Laugh at the right time.

Nod along. Try to guess what’s being said. ”

West shifts slightly in his chair. I glance at him. His jaw is tight. He’s blinking too much.

Brandt looks up for the first time, directly at West. “But I got lucky. Some people live alone in their silence. I don’t.

I got this guy who makes sure I never feel like a burden.

He learned how to sign just so I wouldn’t have to fight to be heard all the time.

He tells me everything twice. Not ‘cause he thinks I’m slow, but because he never wants me to feel left out. ”

West swallows hard, eyes glassy. “Nah, you’re slow,” he insists, loud enough for Brandt to hear. “The only thing I’m tired of hearing on repeat is that fucking movie you love.”

Brandt gives a small grin. “You love it.”

West laughs wetly. “Negative, Ghost Rider. I love you, not Top Gun.”

Brandt’s voice lowers. “I wouldn’t trade that for all the hearing in the world.”

The circle continues, quieter now. There’s a tenderness in the room that wasn’t there when we first sat down, the kind that only shows up after people hand each other pieces of their hearts, and no one drops them.

Riggs lets his gaze pass slowly over the group. “Y’all amaze me,” he says softly. “Every damn time. You show up, even when you’re hurting. You show up for each other. That’s more than most of the world can say. I’m proud of you,” he adds, voice just a little thick.

There’s a heavy, humming throb in my chest, like something fractured open in there, just enough to let some light through. These guys remind me that no matter how bad it gets, I’m gonna make it through, cause they did. And if they can do it, so the fuck can I.

When the group starts packing up, Brandt slaps his hands on his thighs and says, “Alright, gentlemen… and Mandy. Wings? Beer?”

There’s a chorus of groans and laughter. Jax mutters something about needing to line his stomach first after last time, and Nash insists they’re ordering onion rings this time or he’s walking.

I hesitate. My fingers fidget with the edge of my sleeve, tugging it down just a little farther over my wrist. The cotton clings to the skin underneath, thin and puckered in places, still healing.

The thought of going out—of sitting in public, surrounded by strangers, my face being seen —makes my stomach turn in on itself.

Makes my knees want to fold like a bad poker hand.

I glance around at the guys, all of them casually collecting their shit, laughing like it’s no big deal. Like it’s easy .

My gut says no. Stay home. Go curl up in the dark where it’s safe.

But then— Tex.

Tex, who looked at me like I was brave. Like I am brave, even if I don’t feel it. Tex, who held me when I shook like a leaf, and never let go. Who kissed me with a kind of reverence like he was grateful I survived.

He said I was worth it. Every inch of me. Every scar.

I want to believe him.

“I’ll go,” I hear myself say, quiet but firm as I stand. My voice sounds small in the room. “I mean… yeah. I’ll go.”

Brandt’s brow hikes up like I just sprouted wings. “Yeah?”

I shrug, eyes on the floor. “Trying to be more confident.”

“Damn right you are,” McCormick says, and his hand lands solidly on my back. “Let’s get you a beer and some bar food so greasy it forces you back into the gym.”

“No beer for me. I’m still on painkillers.”

McCormick shrugs. “More for me, then.”

I follow them out of the classroom and down the hall.

I’m not there yet. Hell, I might not even be close. But I’m moving. I’m trying .