Page 70 of Fixing to Be Mine

“What’s that for?” she asks. “The bat, not the bag.”

Quickly, she puts the cash inside.

Then I hold the aluminum bat out to her, grip first. “It’s his car, right?”

She stares at it like it’s a snake.

“Yeah. He loved it more than he ever loved me.” Her tone is bitter, but there’s something beneath it, like pain.

“Well,” I say, nodding toward the Camaro, “seems only fair you give it a proper goodbye.”

She hesitates. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” I say. “He wrecked you. What’s the difference?”

She takes the bat slowly, like it might burn her palms, and holds it for a second. The first swing is hesitant, but it’s enough to knock the driver’s side mirror clean off. She jerks from the sound, but something shifts in her eyes. She steps forward again, and this time, she doesn’t hold back.

The driver’s window explodes with the next hit, glass falling in sheets across the leather. She rounds the car like she’s got a checklist. Every window. Every mirror. A dent down the passenger door.

She’s not crying, but the power behind every swing says enough.

I cross my arms, watching her destroy what it represents. The betrayal. The lies. The hollow future she almost walked into, wearing white. She’s not only leaving dents and breaking glass, but she’s also breaking out of the hold her ex had on her.

When she finally stops, the bat clatters to the ground. Her shoulders rise and fall, hands trembling, chest heaving like she’s outrunning every version of herself that was still holding on.

I move closer, and she turns to me, cheeks flushed, hair falling from its tie.

“I feel better,” she says, breathless, pleased by her havoc.

“Love to hear it,” I tell her.

She lets out a laugh that’s halfway to a sob. “Payback is a bitch.”

I reach for her hand and kiss her knuckles. “He doesn’t get to have any power over you anymore,” I say. “Not here. Not now.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You sure you’re good?”

She glances over her shoulder at the wreckage. “I am now.”

“Great. Let’s get the fuck outta here,” I tell her.

I open the passenger door to my truck, and she slides in, chest rising and falling, but there is a lightness to her. I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine. The old truck rumbles to life, and we ease down the gravel driveway, the tires crunching over sunbaked stone as the house disappears behind us.

The windows are down. The air smells like fresh grass and hay. She leans into the door, one elbow resting on the window frame, her other hand clutching her phone, like she’s trying not to look at it. Not able to resist, she unlocks the screen, taps, and scrolls. Her posture shifts almost immediately. It’s small, a tightening of her shoulders, and it’s like she’s trying to brace against something.

She doesn’t make a sound, but the energy in the cab changes fast. It goes from soft and easy to something dangerous.

I keep one hand on the wheel, and the other reaches for hers.

“You good?” I ask as our fingers interlock together.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she swallows and locks her phone, placing it face down on her lap.

“I searched myself,” she says. “I shouldn’t have.”

I glance over at her with furrowed brows. “Do you want to talk about it?”

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