Page 155 of Trailer Trash

Holy shit. Someone’s in my house.

What do I do? Do I move? Scream? If it’s a robber, he might shoot me if I see his face.

As subtly as I can, I open one eye and peek at the front door.

It’s shut, but there’s movement.

A man’s figure stands by the small kitchen table. It’s a living silhouette. His head turns my way. I squeeze my eyes shut. My heart pounds against my eardrums. Papers rustle softly. Maybe he’ll take something and leave. The problem is, I don’t have anything worth stealing.

I peek around the corner once more and squint. The man’s form sharpens.

Curly black hair. Tall. Handsome. Damaged.

Killian.

I can’t help but gasp into my palm.

He doesn’t react. He keeps rummaging, sifting through items on the table.

I’m on my feet without a second thought, tiptoeing closer.

“Killian?” The name sticks in my throat, making my voice small and pathetic. I clear my throat and say it louder. “Killian.”

He glances sideways, as if he isn’t surprised that I’ve caught him breaking into my house. He certainly doesn’t care.

“What is this?” he says gruffly, and holds up a piece of paper.

It’s the note. He plucked it from the dead roses still collecting dust in the middle of my kitchen table. Evan’s roses. I never threw them away.

I shrug, trying to appear calm and composed despite knowing he won’t be happy with my answer.

“They’re from Evan.”

“I know who they’re from. I can fucking read.” He crumples the note and tosses it over his shoulder. “Why do you still have them? Why do I have to see them every damn time I’m here.”

My eyes widen, and I gasp.

“You’ve been here?” I whisper.

“Don’t change the subject.”

Stunned, I simply point at the trash. “You can throw them away. I don’t care.”

“Why haven’t you thrown them away?” He shakes his head in disgust.

I squint, confused. “Is this real?” I reach out, hovering my hand over his arm, afraid to make contact. “Can I touch you?”

“Answer the question, Harlow. You haven’t seen me for months. Why isn’t there something of mine you keep on the table?”

“I kept the car.”

His expression doesn’t change. “That isn’t what I asked.”

I blink. I must be hallucinating. I keep my eyes on his, then press my fingertips against his arm.

It’s hard. Warm.

Real.