Page 103 of Trailer Park Billionaire

Alexei nods. “Not poison. Just… incapacitate. Think of it as nature’s laxative.”

I wave them off. “Trust me, I can maintain a conversation for half an hour. As long as you two don’t trip any alarms, or make any noise, we should be fine.”

Ben leans in and kisses me softly. I let myself melt into it. Even here, sitting on a floor covered in crumpled chip bags and self-made blueprints, planning a heist that could land all three of us in prison, I feel safe. Cared for. Desired. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to want a future that isn’t just lonely and gray.

We continue planning until, a little while later, Alexei finishes all the nachos and starts looking a little green around the gills. He heads back to his apartment, mumbling something about regret and indigestion, and leaves the two of us to ourselves. That’s when thoughts about what comes after creep back in. But for some reason, I don’t feel like letting them gnaw at me this time. I feel like I should just bring them up with Ben. We talk about everything—so it just makes sense we would talk about this too.

So I just ask, “Do you ever think about what we’ll do after this?”

“I was thinking sushi. Haven’t had sushi in a while. Proper sushi though. All that talk about it gave me a craving.”

I chuckle. “Me too. I’ve had a craving for sushi from that place near your trailer park ever since I followed you that day. It’s really good.”

“Oh, you mean Neta. Yeah, it’s delicious. I should get us some for dinner. I don’t think they deliver this far out.”

“Sounds good,” I agree. “But you know that’s not what I was talking about, right?”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah, I know. You mean, what will we do if we’re not in jail or hiding in a landlocked country in Southeast Asia.”

“Yeah.”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that—and a few other things—for a while. But let me get dinner first so we don’t have to do it on an empty stomach, alright?”

I nod. “Alright, but just so I don’t have to sit here wondering if you’re about to break up with me and just want to soften the blow with delicious food: you don’t want to break up with me, do you?”

Ben presses another kiss to my lips and seems to consider his response for a moment. “They don’t have any pandas in prison or in Laos. I’d be a fool to ever leave someone as precious and rare as you.”

My chest does that terrifying flutter thing. That happy, terrifying flutter thing.

Ben stands, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rides up just enough to completely derail my train of thought.

“Alright, I’ll check in on Alex to make sure he’s not turning into a gas station horror story. Then I’ll grab dinner. Will be back in an hour or so.”

I nod, even though a little part of me wants him to stay so we can talk about us right now. But an even bigger part of me wants delicious sushi, so…

“I’ll work on the final varnish layer while you’re gone.”

Ben grins, then lifts me up from the ground to kiss me—soft and slow, like he’s imprinting the shape of his mouth onto my memory. “Back soon.” He winks over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

And then I’m alone.

The apartment feels different without him, like the air’s holding its breath for his return. Which is fine. I like holding my breath. It gives me a sense of calm that I usually only get when his lips are on mine—though right now, it’s the kind of calm that’s laced with anticipation.

It will be fine. We’ll figure this thing between us out.

Because I’m in love with him. And I think he feels the same way.

And when you love each other, that’s what you do.

You figure it out.

I click on the lamp near the easel and get to work. The painting’s nearly finished now, just the faintest adjustments to tone and texture left.

I lose myself in the rhythm of it: the soft scratch of brush on canvas, the familiar smell of linseed oil wafting through the air. While I work, my mind wanders in that warm, fluttery direction it always does lately—toward Ben. The way he looks at me like I’m art. The way he touches me like he’s afraid he might hurt me. The way he touches me like he’s not afraid at all to hurt me—in that really satisfying way.

Then there’s a knock. I flinch.

It’s not the way Ben knocks, all lazy affection and offbeat rhythm. Not the way Alex knocks either—his is usually accompanied by a yell through the door.