Page 88 of Dirty Mechanic
I blink up at the ceiling through tears I can’t feel anymore.
Because the truth is, I didn’t just betray him.
I betrayed us.
And if he never comes back through that door...
I’ll never forgive myself.
I sit there for another minute. Maybe more. Long enough for the storm to deepen into a steady roar outside, the wind sighing through the eaves like the house itself is grieving.
Then I stand. Slowly. Quietly. Like if I move too fast, I’ll break whatever fragile thing is still left inside me. The blanket slides from my shoulders. The chill finds me again, but I let it. I deserve to feel cold right now.
I grab my tote bag with the gun and move toward the back door, barefoot, every step across the floor a question.
Do I still belong here?
Do I still deserve him?
My fingers close around the knob. I pause. Listen for boots on gravel, for the sound of his truck rolling back in.
Nothing.
I push the door open.
The wind slaps me in the face, wet and wild. The rain’s still coming down, thick as curtain strings, but I make the dash across the yard, head bent, hair plastered to my cheeks. The RV looms like a memory in the dark.
Inside, it’s stuffy. Familiar. Still ours.
I sink onto the bench, my knees folding up beside me. The vinyl creaks beneath my weight, same as it used to. And for a split second, I’m back in motion—wind in my hair, my feet on the dash, and Derek laughing as I sing off-key, louder than the radio. I don’t remember the landscapes either. Just the way he looked at me like I was the whole damn view.
I stand in the center of the space and breathe.
This is where we found each other again.
Where I gave him my body, my fears, my name, even if he hadn’t given me his yet. Where we tangled in sheets and promises, and for a moment, the whole world faded to just us and the sound of his breath against my skin.
It’s also where the truth almost came out. Twice. And both times, I swallowed it back like poison.
I kneel and open the RV’s bench seat, fingertips searching in the dark. My breath catches when I find the journal exactly where I left it. I slip my hand inside the tote bag and my hand closes around the cool metal of the gun.
I set both items on the table with care, like sacred things. One for memory. One for survival.
I stare at them for a long time, the rain ticking louder on the roof, thunder growling somewhere distant.
Then I open the journal.
The pen shakes in my fingers. But I write.
If you’re reading this, Mike, know this: I am not the girl you blackmailed into signing those marriage papers.
Not the girl you burned out of her home, who flinched when you walked into a room.
You took everything—my freedom, my name, the people I loved.
You threatened Derek. You used fear like a weapon. You made me lie.
But you didn’t break me. You forged me.
