Page 109 of Fixing to Be Mine

“Lactose intolerant,” Remi interrupts with a laugh.

Colt’s hand brushes the small of my back as we walk through the living room toward the back door.

The space is tidy but casual. Blankets are draped over the couch, and a preseason football game is on mute in the background.

When we walk outside, the air is filled with mesquite smoke, laughter, and something sweeter I can’t quite place.

String lights crisscross the backyard, strung from the trees to the roofline. They sway gently with the breeze, casting a soft golden glow over everything. There’s a long wooden table set beneath them, mismatched chairs tucked around it, and Cash stands over the grill like a man who knows he’s about to feed an army even if there are only five of us.

Fenix is already out here, seated at the far end of the table, half twisting her long hair around one finger as she scrolls her phone with the other. She’s got that same quiet tension I’ve noticed the past few times I’ve seen her—like she’s trying to be anywhere but here without actually leaving.

She looks up, gives a half smile, then returns to her screen.

Remi’s behind us, setting a bowl of chips on the table. “Hope y’all are hungry. We made enough for a football team.”

Cash calls over, flipping burgers, “Don’t worry, babe. Colt eats like one.”

Colt grins and tips his bottle in Cash’s direction, then pulls out a chair for me. I settle in, but my eyes drift back to Fenix. Her shoulders are tense, and she hasn’t said a word.

The conversation picks up around me—Cash asking Colt something about fence repair, Remi making a joke about her mother’s group texts. But Fenix just quietly rises from her seat, phone still in hand, and slips inside without a word.

I count to ten before I follow.

The house is quiet again when I step through the back door. I don’t call her name, just move slowly through the living room until I catch sight of her near the hallway, standing half in shadow by the bookshelf. Her arms are crossed, phone pressed to her chest now like she’s changed her mind about whatever she was going to text.

She hears me approach, doesn’t turn. She gives me a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s wearing jeans and a black tee with a faded band logo on the front.

“I’m fine,” she says softly. “Just needed air.”

“You left the backyard to come inside,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “That’s not air.”

A beat of silence passes between us.

Fenix finally speaks again. “Have you ever felt like the version of you everyone sees is a total lie? Like they love this mask so much that they’d never survive seeing what’s underneath?”

My breath catches. “Yes.”

That one word seems to unravel her.

She blinks down at the floor, jaw tight, trying to hold something in. Then she laughs, but it’s bitter and quiet. “A while ago, I … met someone. It was supposed to be fun. Just something that didn’t matter. But it got serious fast. Too fast. He made me feel like the real me was actuallyenoughuntil the second I started believing it.”

I don’t speak. I know she needs the space to express everything.

“We went our separate ways.” She presses her thumb hard against her temple. “It wasn’t just a breakup. It wrecked me. I dropped out of school. I told everyone I was bored, that it wasn’t the right fit. But really, I couldn’t stay there and pretend I wasn’t falling apart.”

The ache in her voice, the way she’s standing, like she’s still trying to hold herself together—I know that feeling. I’ve lived it.

“And I hate that I still feel everything. I don’t want to. I want to be over it. I want to not care. It’s almost been two years.”

I move closer, not touching her, just being there.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” I whisper. “I get it.”

She finally lifts her eyes to meet mine. There’s something raw there. And for the first time since I met her, I see her without any armor.

“I know who you are,” she says quietly. “I figured it out the second day I met you.”

My pulse spikes, but I don’t move. Don’t flinch.

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