Page 66 of Fixing to Be Mine

The air conditioner clicks on, and the hum fills the space. I grab the bottle and take a long drink, finally telling someone the truths I’ve kept buried for weeks. I’ve only written about them in the journal Colt gave me.

“I didn’t cry—and I still haven’t,” I admit. “I didn’t cause a scene or call them out. I left. I didn’t even tell anyone. I took his cherished car that we were supposed to drive to the airport for our honeymoon, stopped at a gas station, changed in the restroom, and kept going until I made it here.”

Colt sets his glass down carefully on the coffee table, then shifts to face me. His firm hand rests on my thigh.

“I hate that this happened to you, but I’m glad you didn’t marry that cheating prick,” he says.

“Me too.” I nod. “I ran, which is something I never do. For the first time in my life, I needed to disappear.”

His voice softens. “And here you are, in my house.”

“Sleeping in your bed,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

His eyes never leave mine as he reaches for my hand. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

The words hang between us.

My other hand is still curled around the whiskey bottle, but I’m not drinking anymore. I sit with my shame and my truth and a man who somehow makes me believe it’s okay to put it out in the open.

“My name isn’t Sunny.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t pull back, or question me. He watches me with that steady calm he always carries, the kind that tells me my world’s not ending, but somehow beginning.

His thumb brushes slow circles over mine, and it’s more comforting than any words I’ve ever been offered.

A few seconds pass. I keep my gaze forward.

Then he speaks. “Will you tell me your real name?”

It’s not demanding, not invasive, just a simple invitation.

He asks because he wants to know me, because I know he cares.

I take a breath, and for the first time since I left everything behind, I let it out without fear tightening around it.

“Stormy,” I whisper.

He doesn’t repeat it, only chuckles. “That suits you really fuckin’ well.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re more of a tornado than sunshine, darlin’,” he says.

“I’m sorry I lied. People are searching for me, and I don’t want to be found. Please don’t be upset with me.”

“Fuck, I’m not,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice now. “Thank you for telling me.Stormy.Mmm. Sexy. I think I always knew, but I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

Right now, I’m not sure whether I need space or closeness, but he somehow gives me both. I keep my breathing steady.

“You made me realize not all men are trash,” I admit. “When I left New York, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. I didn’t believe anything good could ever come after being betrayed by two people I loved. Then I met you, and it turned my world upside down.”

“Well, that’s the best damn compliment I think I’ve ever received.”

I squeeze his hand and lean into him. He wraps his arm around me and holds me tight as he lightly draws circles on my arm. We stay there—two people on the old couch with whiskey and my heartbreak and whatever this is blooming between us.

“Will you still call me Sunny around your friends and family?” I ask.

“I’ll call you whatever you want, darlin’. Your secret’s safe with me.”

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