Page 108

CHAPTER 108

JUST CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY BED

MARGAUX

I haven’t heard a peep from the police—no knocks on the door, no phone calls. The TRO appears to have gone into some kind of administrative black hole, deprioritized. Ironic, considering the many times the police have urged me to get one so they can serve it as soon as possible.

The apartment is suffocating. A centipede hisses as it crawls across the floor, cockroaches dart around the kitchen, and Sabre's food and water bowls sit pathetically empty.

The mess surrounding me feels like a physical manifestation of everything wrong in my life—Timmy’s chaos, my own exhaustion, the weight of my painful period’s relentless grip.

I can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t think. My body is a battleground, and the fog in my brain is as dense as the heat pressing against the apartment walls. The books that need marketing, the packages that need sending—they’re all distant, impossible tasks.

The fog is winning.

Timmy—still staying with Matty—reaches out again, and—desperate and in a moment of sheer vulnerability—I respond. I tell him what’s going on and how I’m doing—not well.

His messages come through again, his words more polished and poignant than I expect:

Timmy:

Let me come and help you.

I’ll get rid of the centipedes and cockroaches.

I’ll clean the apartment and send your books out.

I’ll take care of Sabre.

I’ll take care of you and love on you.

I’ll rub your back and bring you heat pads and ice packs and massage your feet.

Just let me come and love you.

I know I don’t deserve it, but I’ll make it up to you.

Just please.

Please let me help.

I love you. Let me show you.

The words sting and soothe in equal measure. He knows exactly what to say.

But does he mean it this time?

And by now I know it probably won’t last forever—but will it last long enough to get me through this low point?

I text another friend, D, desperate for her guidance. She’s a social worker, a fellow cat lady, and someone who’s dealt with her own fair share of bullshit when it comes to men and life.

D:

You should make sure he stays consistent for at least nine months before letting him back. But I’ll support you no matter what.

Nine months. That feels like a lifetime. But I don’t have a lifetime right now.

I need help. I need someone. I need him .

With trembling fingers, I type my response.

Me:

Okay.

You can come back.

But you need to follow through on everything you said. 100%.

This is your last chance.

No more letting me down.

Timmy’s reply is immediate:

Timmy:

Oh my god, Margaux, I promise you I’ll do everything I said I would. You mean the world to me. I love you so much. Thank you for giving me one more chance.

For a moment, I let myself believe him.

Timmy arrives like a whirlwind of devotion.

He runs to me, squeezing me close to his chest, and kisses my forehead.

He clears the centipedes and cockroaches with determination, scrubs the apartment until it gleams, and fills Sabre’s bowls with care. He cooks, cleans, and even helps with my book marketing.

Every promise he made, he keeps.

He takes Anabusin which will make him violently ill if he drinks, attends therapy and AA meetings, and—for the first time—there’s a semblance of peace in our home.

One night, Timmy even agrees to listen to an audiobook about quitting drinking with me. It’s a small step, but it feels significant. As the narrator delves into the complexities of alcohol use, I feel a strange mix of guilt and relief.

We recap each chapter like we’re part of an exclusive book club.

“I’ve used alcohol as a Swiss army knife,” I admit aloud. “To numb feelings, to deal with stress, to feel brave in social situations. Somewhere along the line, it became part of my identity.”

Timmy nods. “Yeah, for me, it was about peer pressure. If you didn’t drink enough, you were a pussy. So I became good at it. I was the one organizing the kegs, the one drinking the most. It was who I was.”

For a moment, there’s an openness between us, a sense of shared vulnerability. But I hold back one truth.

I would typically drink around Timmy because it emboldens me—it gives me the courage to bring up the uncomfortable conversations I suppress when I’m sober, when I’m walking on eggshells around him. I’ve hoped drinking together might have provided a lubricant for a healthy, adult discussion.

But deep down, I know it rarely works.

And now that neither of us are drinking, that buffer has been taken away.

He rushes at me, his eyes dark and empty, like the lifeless beads of a shark. He’s not even drinking right now. This is just him.

Unfiltered.

Unassisted.

It was almost a relief to blame the alcohol before, to pretend it was the root of all his problems. But now it’s clear—this is his personality.

Full of rage.

Full of hatred for women.

Sober, he’s just better at hiding it.

I tell basically no one that he’s back. I’ve only told my therapist, my friend Stacey—who was very disappointed and concerned, and my sister Amanda—who simply replied ‘unbelievable’ and stopped talking to me.

The shame feels too heavy, the fear of judgment too sharp. After everything I’ve said—after the TRO, the emails, the countless times I’ve sworn I was done with him—how could I possibly explain this in a way that anyone would understand? In a way that anyone wouldn’t judge? In a way I wouldn’t feel the weight of unbearable shame?

So instead, I let myself sink into the quiet moments where everything feels okay.

Timmy smiling at me as he cooks dinner.

Sabre curled up between us, purring contentedly.

The soft murmur of our audiobook playing in the background.

If anything, the decision to keep our reunion to myself only serves to push me closer to him.

For now, I cling to these fragile pieces of peace, even as the cracks begin to show beneath the surface.

Because deep down, I know this won’t last.

But I’m too tired to fight it anymore.

Too tired to fight him, or myself.

And I’m embarrassed as hell.