Page 109 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“What happened?” he asks softly, tentatively, before taking a step closer, like he might be the one to fix it.
And I?—
I want to scream.
I want to shove him, and hit him, and crawl under a blanket never to be seen again, all at once.
Instead, I just hold out my arm to keep him away. “Get. The fuck. Out.”
Quiet. I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds like it comes from somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous, somewhere so full of fury it could flood the room.
Ben freezes, that smile he likes to wear as armor nowhere to be seen.
“Helena—”
“Get. Out.”
The tears come again, but this time they don’t spill. They simmer behind my eyes, like the rage is boiling them off before they can fall.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice tighter now.
I barely have to think about what to say. There’s no need to be considerate here. I just want him gone.
“I know,” I say, my voice shaking now—but not with fear. With rage. “I know who you are. I know that you lied. About us. About everything. That you’ve been using me.”
Ben looks like I just punched him in the face. I see the dots connect behind his eyes. His breath catches. “Did they?—”
“Not they. Just him. Just your brother. And no, he didn’t do anything but talk.”
Ben looks confused for a moment, then like he’s going to be sick. But I don’t care. I just need him gone. So I get up and shove him back with both hands. He doesn’t stumble. He just stands there, taking it.
“Please,” he says, shaking his head. “Just—please. I know I’m not who you think I am, but I didn’t?—”
“I don’t fucking care! I don’t care who the fuck you are, St. Clair.” I push him again. “I am sorry for what I did to your family, to your brother, to your house—but this... between us…you went too fucking far.” I grab the door again, trying to slam it shut in his face. He catches it with one hand.
“I swear to God, Ben, if you don’t move, I will stab you with a fucking palette knife.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing but pain written on his face.
“Step back, sweetheart,” an old voice says from behind him. Then a figure steps forward, and a weapon comes into focus.
It’s Robyn.
Gun raised. Posture casual.
Ben looks over his shoulder at her like he’s trying to calculate whether she’s real or a particularly weird hallucination.
“You heard the young lady. Step back,” she repeats, eyes locked on him.
Ben hesitates, then takes a full step backwards. Robyn nods, satisfied.
“Now, Helena,” she says calmly, “close the door, lock it, and don’t open it again until you hear my secret knock.”
Before I do like I’m being told, I pull Ben’s key from the lock. “I don’t know your secret knock,” I say.
Robyn nods, then explains, matter of fact, “Well, it’s secret. Of course you don’t know it.”
“Please, Helena. Just let me explain,” Ben pleads, his voice now fraying.
