Page 42 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

We’re somewhere in the middle of nowhere, heading west on a sunbaked highway that looks like it’s been melting since May.

The Texas sun pours through the windshield like warm honey.

The Mini’s AC works hard but loses the battle every time Tex cracks the window for “fresh air.” His boots are kicked off, stocking feet up on the dash, the sun catching the iridescent threads of the purple socks I knitted him.

He wiggles his toes, and I notice the puckered left heel and uneven toe box. Tex doesn’t, they’re his favorite pair.

Sometimes it’s still hard for me to remember that he finds beauty in imperfect things. Like me.

There’s a bag of barbecue chips between us, half-empty.

Candy wrappers and drink bottles litter the floor on his side.

The stereo hums with that Texas country station he insisted we tune into once we crossed the state line.

Willie Nelson bleeds into Kacey Musgraves, then someone new I don’t know, but whose voice sounds dusty and sad, like heartbreak.

Tex hums along, off-key and full-hearted, drumming his hands against his thighs.

He looks happy and carefree, while I nurse a cold soda and try to pretend my stomach isn’t tying itself in knots.

“You good?” he asks, not looking over, just stretching like a sun-drunk cat, arms over his head, ribs peeking from under his cutoff tee.

“Just a little nervous,” I admit. My palms are sweating, and I keep checking the GPS like it’s going to give me the emotional temperature of the house we’re headed to.

He doesn’t laugh or brush it off. Tex just drops one foot to the floor and lets his hand drift over the console, palm up. I slide my fingers into his without a word.

The last few times he talked about going home, it ended in panic or tears. But not this time. Now, he’s almost glowing with quiet pride, like he can’t wait to introduce me to the place he once fled from. Like he’s claiming it, on his terms.

Tex’s eyes fall to my lap, and he turns down the radio. “Your knee’s been bouncing for the past thirty miles.”

I nod, staring out the windshield. “It’s your family.”

“They’re just people, Mandy. They’ll love you.”

“I don’t need them to love me.”

He looks at me for a long beat, serious now. “I want them to. Because I do.”

That quiets the noise in my chest. Not all of it. But enough.

“I never thought I’d be excited to come home,” he says after a moment. “But I am. Because I get to show them who I am now. Who I am with you.”

I nod. “You’re proud.”

“Damn right I am.”

I think of what Brewer once told me, when I confessed how stuck I felt. You’re holding space for your life, but you’re not filling it. You’re not living.

I’m living now, Brewer.

And maybe that’s what this road is. Not just a drive to Texas. Not just meeting parents or eating casseroles or trying to navigate small talk. It’s the proof. The miles we’ve put behind us. The trust it takes to sit in the passenger seat and let someone else drive.

But maybe loving him means letting him fall and still being here when he stands back up. That’s what he’s done for me since the day we met. Tex never tries to change me or fix me. He just stands sentinel at my side, a strong presence I can lean on when I’m scared.

I want to be that for him.

“Hey,” Tex says, cracking open a new soda. “Hand me the Twizzlers.”

“Dallas Jackson,” I mutter under my breath as I reach back for the bag, “if I have to smell another sugary red rope in this car, I’m going to walk to your family’s house.”

His grin is huge. “Say it again.”

He hates his name with a passion, but for some strange reason, he loves when I say it. “Nope.”

He throws a Twizzler at me. Tex shifts again, pressing his forehead to the passenger-side window, then turns toward me. “Hey, you gonna call me Dallas when we get there?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Only if I want to make you sound like a rodeo clown.”

He cackles, slapping the dash with one hand. “You wound me, Mandy Cahill.”

I grin, but the truth is, I love his name. All of it. Even the parts he used to hate. Because it’s his. We pass a sign that says Austin, 87 miles , and my chest tightens. Tex must feel it because he squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

“Distract me,” I say.

“With a blow job? Road head?” Tex looks so hopeful that I can’t hold back my laugh. Mission accomplished. I’m distracted now thinking of his tight lips and warm wet mouth swallowing my dick.

“No, getting arrested will only make me more anxious.”

The silence stretches until I can’t hold it in anymore.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say. The words feel big in my mouth. Bigger than they should. Tex glances at me curiously. “I might… volunteer at the VA burn center. Maybe just once a week. Something small.”

He sits up straighter. “Wait. A hospital?”

“Yeah.”

His eyebrows rise slowly. “You? Volunteering at a hospital. Willingly. Are you okay?”

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “No. I mean, yes. It scares the shit out of me. You know that.”

He nods, watching me carefully now, all his attention on my face.

“But I’ve watched you walk straight into your fears and come out the other side stronger. I’ve watched you tell the truth in rooms full of strangers. Let yourself be seen. That kind of courage, it changes people.”

It changed me .

Tex’s mouth parts slightly. His expression softens.

“I want you to look at me like that,” I admit. “The way I look at you. Like I’m brave. Like I’m more than the shit that happened to me.”

He’s quiet for a long beat, but his hand finds mine, threading our fingers together.

I don’t want to look at him and see that expression on his face, like he’s falling in love with me all over again.

That’s how he looks lately, whenever we have one of these ‘healing’ moments. Tex calls them spiritual awakenings.

“I already do,” he says, voice thick. “You don’t have to prove anything. But if that’s what you want—if that’s what helps you feel strong—I’ll be there. However you need me.”

My sentinel statue.

My throat tightens, but I nod.

Because I don’t want to be fearless. I want to be the kind of man who faces his fear and does the hard thing anyway. And now, with Tex beside me, I believe I can be.

Tex’s phone buzzes on the center console. He glances at it, then barks out a laugh.

“What?” I ask.

He holds the screen up so I can read the message from Nacho.

NACHO:

Ur boy McCormick is eating all my profits. He’s had three carnitas, two churros, and he keeps calling the guac ‘slutty.’ Come back and save me.

Tex groans dramatically. “I leave for one damn weekend and McCormick turns the taco truck into an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

I chuckle. “Did you actually leave him in charge?”

“No, Nacho drafted him. But I’m regretting the recommendation. This is his third text.”

He texts back with one hand while the other steals the last gummy worm from the console cup holder.

Tell him if he eats one more taco I’m garnishing his wages.

NACHO:

Joke’s on you. He doesn’t know he’s unpaid labor.

Tex’s phone rings, and he answers on speaker. “You rang, El Jefe?”

Nacho’s voice blasts through the car. “You left me with a travieso ! McCormick just tried to put queso on ice cream, and now he’s asking if churro tacos are a thing.”

Tex howls. “I’ve been gone for a day !”

“I’m telling you, he’s a liability. He told three customers the truck was out of beef, just so he wouldn’t have to share.”

Mandy snorts. “He’s got a point.”

“I heard that!” McCormick’s voice yells in the background. “I’m fueling creativity!”

Nacho groans. “You’re fueling diabetes. Come get your gremlin before I duct tape him to the fryer.”

Tex grins. “Hang tight. We’ll be back in a few days.”

“You better be. He’s eyeing the churros again.”

Click . Tex drops the phone in the cup holder and grins at me. “I told you we shouldn’t leave McCormick unsupervised.”

“He’s got a gift,” I say, smirking. “For destruction.”

Tex reaches for another gummy worm. “I’d try those churro tacos for sure.”

The sun starts to dip low, painting the sky with streaks of gold and rose. Somewhere along the way, we pull off at a rest stop that overlooks a field full of tall grass, bluebonnets, and nothing else. I kill the engine, and we sit on the hood, side by side, the silence comfortable.

Tex shrugs out of his purple hoodie and drapes it over my shoulders without a word. It smells like lotion and cinnamon gum and something warm and unmistakably him. His head finds my shoulder like it’s always meant to be there.

The air is warm. His socks glow in the last light of the day.

His deep sigh moves through me, filling up my empty spaces. I think about everything we’ve made it through, every night one of us almost gave up, every time we reached out instead of shutting down, every scar we dared to let each other see.

We’re not perfect. We’ve both done things we’re still learning how to forgive in ourselves. But we made a choice, every day, we keep making it. To stay. To listen. To love harder, even when it’s hard.

It won’t always be easy. We’ll stumble. We’ll get it wrong.

He’ll spiral sometimes, chasing ghosts I can’t see, and I’ll slip into that numb place I go when things hurt too much.

But he’ll drag me back to the surface, and I’ll hold on to him like an anchor.

That’s the rhythm we’ve found. The give and take.

The trust that we’ll always find our way back to each other.

Because that’s what love is. Not a cure. Not a rescue. A partnership. A promise to try.

Healing isn’t a straight line, and it never really ends. But now, I’ve got someone who walks the path with me, steady and stubborn and shining like he refuses to dim, no matter what he’s been through.

And for the first time, I’m not just surviving anymore.

I thought my body made me unlovable. Thought my silence made me strong. But it’s Tex's voice that brought me back to life. And I want him. All of him. Hidden scars, relapses, glitter, tears—I want the whole damn thing.

His mess is his strength. His defects make both of us stronger.

Love didn’t fix me, but it gave me something to live for, and that’s more than I ever dared to ask for.