Page 112

CHAPTER 112

A+ ACTING

DEX

T he apartment is a reflection of Margaux’s world—a place barely holding together under the weight of chaos.

Even through the screen, I can see how the neglect has festered. The centipedes, the cockroaches, the near-empty bowls for Sabre—it all mirrors the disarray in her life.

Margaux has her period, and once again it’s debilitating—but this time, she’s by herself. She can’t move, she can’t eat—all she can really do is lie prone and wish for sleep to come.

She’s barely holding on, but she’s still there, waiting out her pain so she can once again fight against the fog that’s settled over her mind and her space. That’s the thing about Margaux—even at her worst, she doesn’t quit.

And then Timmy texts her.

Timmy:

Let me come and help you.

Just let me come and love you.

It’s an enticing offer, and I hate him for how well he knows her vulnerabilities. He weaves a net of promises, knowing exactly how to catch her in a moment of desperation. I can practically hear the words as she reads them, how they would sound sweet and soft against her fractured resolve.

I’ve studied this game of his for too long. He knows when to turn on the charm and when to dial it up.

He doesn’t care about Margaux’s wellbeing. Not really.

He cares about worming his way back into her life, about controlling her again.

The cycle is exhausting to watch from the outside—I can’t imagine living it.

Her fingers hesitate over the keyboard as she replies, and I want to reach through the screen and stop her.

Don’t do it.

But I know she will. I know Margaux.

She’s drowning, and he’s throwing her a lifeline, even if it’s one tied to a rock.

I watch as she types her response:

Margaux:

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.

Her belief in him—her need to believe in him—is a knife in my chest.

She deserves better, and she knows it. But better doesn’t feel reachable right now, not in her world.

When he arrives, he does what he always does at first—he performs.

The centipedes are gone.

The cockroaches vanish.

Sabre’s bowls are full again, and the apartment starts to resemble something livable.

He stops drinking, and doesn’t pressure her for alcohol or cigarettes.

He attends therapy, as well as an AA group meeting.

He even takes on aspects of her book marketing, like he’s finally pulling his weight and following through on his promises.

For a moment, even I almost believe he’s changing—but time, as usual, reveals it’s just a performance. It’s always a performance.

After a few weeks, I hear her tell him about sobriety, how it’s clearing her head, making her feel like herself again. Her voice is bright when she talks about vivid dreams and restful sleep.

Timmy’s reply? A shrug and a dismissive “I haven’t noticed much of a difference.”

I clench my jaw. It’s not just apathy—it’s sabotage.

He’s not drinking—sure—but that doesn’t mean he’s supportive. Sobriety isn’t fixing him, because sobriety isn’t his real problem. He’s not drinking, but he’s still Timmy—selfish, careless, and cruel.

The worst part is that Margaux is trying so hard to hold onto the glimpses of good. She talks to her therapist, recounting his small wins. “He’s following through,” she says. “He’s even listening to an audiobook with me about quitting drinking. We talk about it after each chapter.”

“Does it feel sustainable?” her therapist asks, cutting through the hope in Margaux’s tone.

Margaux pauses, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But he’s trying.”

Trying. Margaux deserves more than someone who’s ‘trying’. She deserves someone who meets her where she is, who adds to her life instead of depleting it.

I’m proud of her for starting roller derby boot camp. It’s the first thing she’s done in a long time that’s purely for her, something that makes her feel alive again. Watching her take those shaky first strides on skates is a rare moment of joy for me. She’s nervous, but she’s doing it, anyway.

That’s Margaux. She never stops trying.

And then there’s Timmy, hovering on the sidelines, insisting on attending every practice.

He’s cheering her on, sure, but it’s performative. When he decides to join her, it’s not about supporting her—it’s about being the center of attention. The skates, the gear, the time-lapse videos—it’s all a show.

And when Margaux decides boot camp isn’t for her, Timmy’s interest in skating disappears entirely.

He’s nothing but empty promises and unfinished projects.

Even now, as I watch her assemble PR boxes for her new book release, he’s there, performing again.

He sets up phones to film her, crafting time-lapse videos for her marketing. It’s thoughtful, sure, but I can’t help but see it as another manipulation. He’s proving his worth just enough to keep her invested, to keep her tethered to him.

And it’s working.

She’s smiling as she works, letting herself believe in the version of Timmy who does these kinds of things, as if he’s consistent with his thoughtful gestures, not just making grandiose shows every now and then to keep her hooked and able to look past the many, many low moments.

Her therapist’s words ring in my head: Don’t mistake baseline behavior for extraordinary .

But Margaux is so starved for partnership that she clings to these scraps as if they’re a feast.

I know how this story ends.

Timmy will unravel again.

He’ll stop trying.

He’ll find a way to hurt her, to make her feel small and dependent.

And Margaux—with all her strength and resilience—will try to fix it.

She’ll keep trying until she has nothing left to give.

I’m angry at Timmy, but I’m angrier at myself.

For watching this happen.

For not being able to stop it.

For wanting so badly to step in, to be the one who shows her what love is supposed to feel like.

She deserves so much better than this.

I just hope she realizes it before it’s too late.