But it can’t be real. The evidence is too weighted against me, with friends, boyfriends, and family all affected by my bad juju. Just thinking about it makes me discreetly touch the woodgrain trim on the dash of his sensible sedan. Yeah, I know it’s wood-veneered plastic, but it’s the best I’ve got right now, so it’ll have to do. It’s all about believing it works, anyway.

If the threat of imminent death isn’t enough to run Blake off, I know something that will. My home.

Everything about Blake screams success, fancy-schmancy, and upper middle-class. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He obviously works for his money, and he’s not a prick about having cash. Other than what I assume is between his legs, he’s the complete opposite of a prick.

But I expect that pulling up to my single-wide trailer in a trailer park in the country will be enough to finally make him pump the brakes and give me a second look. One that’ll make him smarten up and run the way I’ve been waiting for him to do all along.

A test? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as a kindness he won’t fully recognize, but I’ll know what I sacrificed to save him.

“Turn here,” I say, guiding him into the trailer park lot.

I watch him closely to see the moment he realizes exactly who and what I am. Pretty packaging hiding a death-dealing, stitching-threads-together-to-pay-bills, dark and twisted woman who will never live up to whatever he thinks he sees in me.

That’ll be the moment I lose all pretense of pretending this can end differently.

His jaw tightens, the muscle popping in intervals.

Yep, that’s me. Zoey Walker, Trailer Park Princess. Another of my nicknames. “Sixth on the left, the blue one.”

Blake pulls up and parks, and I try to see my home through his eyes.

A long metal rectangle, long ago painted a pale blue, with bright blue shutters and an entrance hidden behind a white screen door that’s seen better days. There are three wooden steps up to the front landing, where I placed a plant in an attempt to make it seem welcoming.

My secret?

It’s a fake plant because I can’t keep a real one alive, and publicly killing plants is the last bit of fuel on the fire I need. Through the window’s open blinds, I can see flashing lights that tell me Jacob is home and playing video games.

“Stay there,” Blake says as he puts the car in park and runs around the front bumper. He opens my door and scoops me into his arms.

“Put me down, I can walk!” I hiss.

“No.” Blunt and inviting zero argument, so of course, I argue.

“Seriously? If Jacob sees me—”

But he’s already on the porch, pulling the screen door open. “Key?”