Page 90 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“Do you feel better now?” I ask, letting myself lean into him a little.
He looks at me, using his free hand to guide my head gently to his shoulder, allowing me to rest there, brushing through my hair once. “Much,” he says on a sigh.
We eat in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s presence. And it feels strange but in a strangely good way. Like I’m slowly becoming someone I didn’t think I’d ever get to be. Someonewho comes with attachments. Also someone with morning breath (probably), unbrushed hair, and no makeup. But, for some reason, my friend doesn’t seem to mind.
Maybe being more than just friends wouldn’t be the craziest idea?
I watch Ben as he licks strawberry jam off his thumb and makes a satisfied face over the smell of the coffee. That’s probably the moment I realize (like knot-untyingly realize) that I could get used to this. That maybe I want to get used to this.
Which is reckless, and naïve, and dumb, and absolutely terrifying.
“What?” he asks when he catches me staring.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just… thinking about our plan.”
Because that’s what I actually need to focus on.
Ben nods. “No need to worry, Panda. We’ll make the switch on Monday, flip the painting on Tuesday, and then it’s on to the big one. Will you be able to finish it before the exhibition starts?”
“It’ll be ready,” I say. “But if our schedule allows, I’d like to use today to work on it some more.”
Ben assures me that we’ve got plenty of time—but somehow, instead of painting, we spend the rest of the morning exactly like this: talking, teasing, and trusting each other with more glimpses into one another than either of us is probably used to.
At some point, after brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower, we crawl under the covers again—not to sleep, not to fuck. We just… exist. Together. We share ancient childhood stories, funny anecdotes from work, and some secrets no one else has ever heard.
I learn that Ben once almost got arrested for accidentally setting the chemistry lab of his boarding school on fire while trying to distill‘artisanal vodka’in a beaker. He learns that I used to run an illegal tattoo business in prison using a contraband needle and ink from ball-point pens.
The sunlight drifts across the walls, and I watch as Ben’s face changes with it. Around noon, he’s all classical perfection—a sharp jawline softened by stubble, cheekbones that could cut glass. The kind of beauty we rope off at the museum.
By evening, when the shadows stretch longer, other details emerge: dark circles I may or may not have caused with my snoring, a chipped tooth that only shows when he grins in that special way of his, the dip of his collarbone and the veins that run along it—the kind of beauty they usually rope off at the strip club.
By nighttime, we’re still wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, our legs tangled lazily. We order pizza and eat it in bed. It’s the most comfortable and relaxed I’ve felt in years. Maybe ever. Which is saying something, considering the predicament I still find myself in.
We end up staying in bed all day. It’s like we’ve stepped out of real life and into a still-life painting of our own making. We continue talking. About stupid things. And serious things. And things in between. We let our bodies drift closer until we’re breathing in sync again.
At some point, I start tracing the line of his collarbone. He massages my hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No expectations. No pressure. No… nothing. At least here, in our own little piece of art. We fall asleep like this too—limbs tangled, heartbeats synced.
Monday comes too fast. And with it, that quiet, dangerous thing that has been lurking for a little while now: the feeling of belonging. The feeling of wanting more of this, more of him. Luckily, there’s no time to dwell on it too much, since my mind needs to occupy itself with illegal schemings once again.
After the museum closes, I lie in waiting. Calm. Collected. Wearing the kind of blazer that says,‘I am a boring, highly responsible person who absolutely does not have a forgery hidden in her tote bag.’
Ben is on his way to visit Elaine, who still thinks he’s some eccentric billionaire with a passion for art and philanthropy. She invited him at the prison-break funeral. And right now, I can see him striding into her office with that trademark con artist smile and a bottle of expensive wine he stole in a different heist.
The moment the door closes behind them, I move.
The hallways are empty. The fluorescent light flickers slightly, as if the building itself is nervous. I swipe my keycard and step into the archive.
I’ve done this a hundred times. But tonight, my pulse is racing. And my usually steady hands suddenly behave like they’re holding a magic wand (one with a fully charged battery.)
Quickly, I head straight for where ‘The Burden of Leadership’ by John D. Swift is kept. I remove the real painting from its box and pull the forgery from my bag. I hold them up side by side. Same weight. Same dimensions. In this light, they look indistinguishable. Dada would be proud of me.
Gently, I place the real painting into the padded bag I brought. Then I slide the forgery into the storage box and push it back onto the shelf. Which is when I hear it—a noise behind me.
“Helena?”
I spin around, heart diving straight into my stomach.
Pat. Just Pat.
