Page 2 of Fixing to Be Mine

“They won’t. I can guarantee it,” I tell him.

He sighs, reaches inside his pocket, then gives me the key ring that’s attached to a mini disco ball.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my jaw clenched tight.

“You’re really scary,” he says.

“I know,” I tell him, sliding into the driver’s seat.

I turn the key and shift the car into first gear, not looking back as I peel off. I drive across the city like I’m not wearing awedding gown that cost a quarter of a million dollars, like there’s not a ceremony unraveling behind me in real time.

I pull into the private side of the bank I’ve used since I was eighteen—not the main entrance, the back one for high-net-worth clients who don’t want to be seen.

When I walk inside, I don’t ask to speak with a teller. The manager appears, smiling, until he registers what I’m wearing and the hard expression on my face.

“I need to withdraw fifty thousand in cash,” I explain.

He doesn’t blink, but I see the flicker in his throat when he swallows. “Of course. Any particular denominations?”

“Small enough to fit in a bag. Large enough not to be a pain in the ass.”

“Absolutely. No problem,” he says.

It takes less than ten minutes because they know who I am. They don’t question the timing, the dress, or the fact that my diamond-studded heels were meant for vows, not bank offices. I sign the slip and take the leather bag he provided that’s packed with stacks of cash. A security officer escorts me back to my car.

There is no hesitation as I crank the engine and drive away. I have fifty grand that says I can disappear however the hell I want for however long I need.

Today, I was supposed to walk down the aisle, but instead, I’m walking away. I might have lost myself, but it’s time I remember who I am.

The bag of money sits heavy on the passenger seat, seat belt looped lazily across it.

I haven’t cried. I don’t feel like I can. My whole body is locked in something that’s colder than sadness and heavier than grief. I feel stupid and humiliated, but above all, I’m angry.

I believed in him. I believed inus.

Donovan said the right things at the right times. He knew how to look at me when the cameras were on and when theyweren’t. That’s what hurts the most. That it wasn’t only betrayal; it was a performance, and I stupidly fell for it. His actions were nothing more than a long, slow game that I didn’t even know I was playing.

And my little sister. My maid of honor. I don’t let myself linger on that part yet. Not when I’m still wearing the makeup she picked out and the pearl earrings my mother insisted matched hers.

The highway eventually opens wide, and I press the gas harder than I need to. The lines blur, lights stretching across my vision like ribbons I’ll never reach the end of. The silence is too much, but I keep driving, jaw locked tight, eyes focused on the road.

Somewhere past the third highway merge, long after the city lights fell behind me and the roads turned flat and empty, I remember something one of my friend’s wives said at a dinner party a few months ago. It was a conversation that happens once the champagne kicks in, when honest opinions start slipping through.

“If I ever needed to disappear,” Lexi said, her red lips turned up into a smile, “I’d go back home to Valentine, Texas. It’s a town people drive to when they don’t want to be found. It’s charming. Friendly. In the middle of nowhere. It’s the type of place people go to get lost.”

At the time, I laughed because I never thought I’d need to disappear. Well, until now.

Four hours later, I pull off at a gas station that’s barely lit. It has a single pump and a flickeringOpensign that looks like it’s been dying since the ’90s. I park, pull some slacks and a cute crop top from my duffel bag that was supposed to go with me on our honeymoon, then step inside a one-person restroom. I wiggle out of the dress, realizing I have no shoes other than the heels on my damn feet.

I grab a coffee and then type my destination into the GPS that was installed in the heavily restored vintage car.

My next destination? Valentine, Texas.

A small dot appears on the screen that’s across the other side of the map.

It’s thirty-one hours away and south of nowhere, and I decide I’ll take my time driving there. I tap the route and let the voice guide me back onto the highway.

I’ve got a full tank of gas, fifty thousand in cash, no phone, zero responsibilities, and absolutely nothing left to lose.

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