Page 170 of Trailer Trash

Apparently, it’s the same thing Frida did that horrific night. An embrace. Maybe it’s instinctual for women to hold monsters when they uncover their scars.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m unsure what else to do. My heart bleeds for him. Worst of all, I pity him, and now, I know why he hates that. Everyone pitied him.

Also, I’ve never met someone with an identical twin, but I imagine it might feel like you’re both alive and dead if the other passes away. That’s how he described it, anyway.

“Um,” I say hesitantly, searching for words that won’t make him feel like a tragic ending. “How does that make you feel?”

Oh Lord. I sound like my therapist.

“I mean, wow,” I blurt, gazing at him.

His expression is unreadable. He ignores my question and repeats, “Are we closer now?”

I nod. Too long. Too stupid.

But he smiles, big and crooked.

Heck yeah. I did something right.

His account of that night continues swirling in my head. So much makes sense now. How he clearly has abandonment issues. His jealousy of Jagger. How he warned me not to sleep with his brother. How hard it is to move on when you don’t understand the why.

“Did you ever confront Frida about Asher?”

“No. Frida cheated with someone else not long afterward, and I stopped caring whether she admitted what happened with him. Either way, if he had just given me time, I would’ve forgiven him. I think he slept with her so I’d have a reason to hate him after he was gone.”

I nod once more. Carefully, I ask, “What about River? Why did you sleep with his fiancée? You did to River exactly what Asher did to you.”

He shrugs and looks at his lap. “I didn’t know they were engaged.”

My heart sinks, because I hoped we were past lies.

“She knew your name, Killian.”

“Harlow, I don’t remember,” he says, neither defensive nor upset. “I was drunk and high. I assume we talked before hooking up. I don’t remember.”

I want to believe him. It’s an easy excuse, though. The most exonerating excuse: I don’t remember.

“Baby, when things are good between us, I don’t think about Asher.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. I’ll get you a new trailer and we can live in it. Wherever you want to live is fine. Just say you want me with you.”

“Aww,” I swoon. “Jesus, Killian. Of course I do.”

His eyes light up for the first time since we started this grim discussion. I really do make him happy. I can’t deny having him close feels right. I’ve felt his absence from the moment he walked away.

Killian and I start fresh.

During the first week, we are quiet, ruminating on everything. I watch him like a hawk, though, praying I don’t catch him using. It’s hard for him. I can tell. He gets fidgety and paces. Sometimes, he’ll hold me on the couch until his leg quits bouncing.

He replaces my phone and school supplies before I can ask. Keysha cries when I finally call her. I tell the fire investigator I’m safe, but I don’t tell him who started the blaze. That lie belongs to me now.

By week two, I remember I can’t be his counselor. He doesn’t want to, but he attends Narcotics Anonymous, a weekly group. I set up a therapist appointment for him. I think individual counseling will help.

I’m a little codependent, but I’ll set it up. He can do the work.

His dad isn’t convinced Killian will stay sober, so he hasn’t restarted Killian’s trust payments. I can’t blame Clark. The condo works for now. It has to. My insurance money for the trailer was denied because the cops ruled it suspicious. They don’t have enough evidence to connect the arson to anyone, but I still won’t get a payout.