Page 17 of Trailer Park Billionaire

When I hear nothing but birds chirping, I allow my tense body to relax for the first time in what feels like weeks. The knot in my belly stays, as does the image of my grandpa’s face etched into my retinas, but I somehow manage to draw in a breath for more than two seconds—which is a start.

My gaze shifts from the window to a painting on my wall. It’s a somber abstract reminiscent of a seascape, all grays and blues, waves crashing against jagged rocks under a sky that looks like it’s crashing in on itself. My grandpa had given it to me when I got out of prison, said it reminded him of how strong I was—for surviving the storm, even if I still looked a little waterlogged.

Well, who looks waterlogged now?

The feeling of approaching sorrow and fragile peace stops abruptly when another knock echoes through the apartment.

I hold my breath and look for an exit, a way out—as if I could outrun my decisions from the other night. If the cops are here, if they know where I live, it’s just a matter of time before they catch me anyway. So I brace myself, trudge over to the door, and open it.

Behind it, my boss appears. She peeks inside my apartment as I release a long sigh.

“Are you… sitting in the dark? All by yourself?”

All by myself.

Yes.

That’s how it’s going to be from now on.

Granted, I have sought out being alone ever since I was released from prison seven years ago. Being alone is good. It’s safe. At least, it used to be. But now it feels different. I’m not just alone anymore. I’m?—

“Helena?” Elaine interrupts, pulling me out of the spiral.

“No tantra class today?” I ask.

She gives me a pained smile, not unlike the one Sienna wore earlier. “I came because I wanted to give you this.” She lifts a big bag. “I made a casserole and baked some brownies. I know how much you love those.”

I do not. But I never had the heart to tell her. The Condolence Casserole is appreciated, though.

“Anyway, I don’t want to stay… unless you want me to.”

I shake my head slowly. “I’d rather be alone.”

“Of course,” Elaine says gently. “We’re learning about emotional blockages and limiting beliefs that hinder personal growth in class today anyway. I’d hate to miss that.”

“Emotional blockages and limiting beliefs, huh,” I repeat, my mind going blank.

“Yeah. But I’ll leave my phone on vibrate in case you call and need anything, alright? I’d have to ask, but I think shoving vibrating things down your pants is probably encouraged in a tantra class.”

I nod, wish Elaine an educational evening, and close the door behind her. The silence creeps back into the apartment—and with it, something else comes creeping in. Something a lot scarier.Loneliness.I know the feeling well. And I know that ignoring it won’t make it go away. For all my emotional stuntedness, I know this emotion. Not just being alone—but lonely.

It’s how I had felt every time the other girls at school talked about picking out new dresses with their moms. It’s how I hadfelt after my dad died. It’s how I had felt when my grandpa went to prison. And it’s ultimately how I ended up in prison myself.

The difference was, when my mom died, my dad was there to pick up the slack. And when my dad died, my grandpa was still there for me. Now… there is no one.

And I don’t like this feeling. Not at all.

I put the Condolence Casserole in the fridge with the Sorry-For-Your-Loss Lasagna and sink back into the sofa. Then I stare at that painting on the wall for what feels like hours.

Unmoving.

Incapable of moving.

I just stare in silence, like a statue—trying to feel nothing. Or at least pretending to.

Until another knock kills the silence. Not a soft knock, not like Elaine’s. This knock sounded more like a bottle flying through a window.

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