Page 185 of Trailer Trash

“That I don’t have privacy or freedom?”

“You mean, you have a caring man.”a

I snort at the absurdity.

He captures me in his arms and kisses my neck. “Don’t be a stupid girl. I keep you safe. You should pay me for my efforts.”

I laugh, genuine this time. “I see you’re still delusional.”

His energy darkens, causing me to tense.

“I wouldn’t be with you if I thought there was a chance I could hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

My stomach knots, but not as hard as it once did when a doubt clawed to the surface.

I check my watch. “We better get to the funeral.”

Killian swallows, but doesn’t seem anxious. It’s why I’ve been watching him more than usual. I just pray my Killian stays present. With me.

He takes my hand, and we head back to our new place, a cute bungalow on the beach. It isn’t cheap, but it isn’t permanent. We’re renting it until we figure out a home we can call our own. Maybe a trailer, a condo, or a cute bungalow. Whatever it is, I told him I want to put some money toward it. I want to earn a piece of it. He agreed, but I doubt he understands why. We are still very different, but are adapting and taking it day-by-day.

We shower and dress in solid black. I stay mostly quiet. Watching.

The cemetery is calm and peaceful. In the distance, a small group has assembled under a beautiful weeping tree. The Florida sun is out, but the air carries the chill of February. His parents hug us, and we take our seats beside them.

Asher was buried five years ago, but the family never gathered beside his grave to say goodbye. Killian wasn’t capable of it then. Today, he is.

And so is his family.

The tombstone is old and the grass mature, but the words spoken from the preacher were never delivered until now.

“Asher Easton left us too soon. In his short life, he filled stages with movement and rooms with laughter. He danced beside famous singers, competed across the country, and never missed an opportunity to charm a pretty girl. He was a beloved son and brother. He is deeply missed.”

Killian holds my hand. He remains stoic throughout. Christine cries, Clark dabs his eyes with a tissue, and Jagger nods solemnly.

One person isn’t here: River.

It’s hard to imagine I’m welcome at this private moment. I didn’t shoot myself, yet I feel strangely responsible for River being behind bars. It hasn’t gone to trial, but attorneys say he’s looking at least twenty-five years in prison for attempted murder. Dr. Jannis says I have trauma-related guilt or something. I sniffle as I stare at the lush grass.

As if Killian knows exactly what I’m thinking, he leans close to my ear.

“River isn’t there because of you. I should’ve told him the truth, but he chose to pull the trigger.”

I let his words settle in. His parents don’t hold me responsible, either. In fact, once the service finishes, it’s Clark who gives me an extra hug.

“I am glad you are here.”

“For real?”

He does not laugh. “I never apologized, Harlow. I kept thinking I had time. That if I controlled the drugs, the house, and the people around him, I could keep him from becoming dangerous. I was wrong, and I blamed you.”

“Uh, gosh. Thanks,” I say with sincerity.

“This is a sad but needed day,” he continues. “However, I’m looking forward to new beginnings. I want to see you two at the altar soon.”

My cheeks burn and I grin, both touched and giddy.

Killian holds my hand tighter. “We want to get married at the mansion.”