Page 150 of Trailer Trash

Like a ghost, I see Killian with his crooked smile.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

He smiles bigger and says something I can’t hear, then fades away.

“I have to get a new car.” I hug the steering wheel like an idiot. It makes me feel closer to him. Like this car is proof that I was loved. That he’s still here. If only I accepted the dance lessons, he would’ve seen how much I cared and not relapsed.

My stomach knots.

“It’s not my fault I was raped. It’s not my fault I was raped.”

I shudder and start the car. The engine hums to life.

“It’s not my fault I fell in love with an addict. Again.”

Evan sits at a small table in the back of a busy coffee shop. I stand over him, my heart pounding. His brow lifts upon seeing me, the gleam in his eyes a mix of surprise and anxiousness.

His hands are still bandaged. One has pins sticking out of it. It guts me.

“Don’t cry,” he says.

I nod and wipe away a few tears. “I’m so sorry for everything Killian did to you.”

“It’s okay, but we still shouldn’t talk with him out there. Free.”

“Sorry, I just saw you sitting in the corner and thought I’d swing over and just... I feel terrible.”

He smiles nervously and scans the tables.

“It sucks. His dad’s lawyer offered to cover my medical bills and pay a settlement if I waive the civil suit. There’s an NDA, too. I’ll probably take it.”

“Yeah, money helps.”

“It does.” He shrugs, though, then adds, “This will sound pathetic, but right now, I just wish your psycho-client-boyfriend-or-whatever was locked up so I can sleep at night.”

“Me, too,” I whisper, if only for his peace of mind.

“I think you should go. I don’t want anyone seeing us together. When the psycho attacked me, he said never talk to you again, or he’d come back and finish the job.”

A spark of excitement cuts through me. I scan the coffee shop before I can stop myself.

“He said that? Do you think he’s watching us now?”

The hope in my voice disappoints me.

“I hope not!” Evan replies, horrified. He quickly lowers his voice. “Harlow, you have no idea how sorry I am for the hell I put you through. You leaving me got me sober and saved my life. But could you please, please go somewhere else?”

I flutter my eyelashes, letting his fear sink into me. He’s terrified. I should be too. His hands are ruined. I was raped. We both have scars.

I back away from his table. “Of course, sorry. Thanks.”

He gives a short nod and looks away as if he doesn’t know me.

I memorize the visual. I need to be scared.

Why am I not scared?

I go to school. Go to work. Therapy on Fridays. Weekends studying. Repeat.