Page 113

CHAPTER 113

THE TRUTH ABOUT TIMMY

MARGAUX

W hen I’m out with Timmy, I feel like I’m walking a tightrope.

With my ex, the challenge was keeping him from creeping people out. He was the silent type, lurking in the background unless his friends were around to draw him out of his introverted shell.

Timmy, on the other hand, will never shut the fuck up.

He dominates every conversation, swallowing the room with his words. It’s not that he’s trying to connect with people—far from it. If he asks a question, it’s only to set the stage for one of his stories. The exchange is transactional—a brief response from the other person, and then Timmy launches into a tangent, often irrelevant but always lengthy.

Some people seem entertained, laughing at his jokes or marveling at the bizarre twists in his tales. He has a knack for painting vivid, if chaotic, pictures with his words. But even those who enjoy his stories at first grow weary as he stumbles over sentences, repeats himself, or speaks so rapidly he can’t keep up with his own thoughts.

My friend who visited once whispered to me, “Is he on gear? He’s talking so fast.” She literally thought he was on heroin.

I laughed it off at the time, but inside, I cringed.

He misses—or ignores—social cues. The shifting of weight in a chair, the darting glances toward the clock, the forced chuckles meant to wrap up the interaction. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

It’s strange, because he’s so attuned to human behavior in other contexts. When it comes to telling stories to strangers or groups, that attunement disappears.

I didn’t notice the incoherence of his writing until April, when he bombarded me with emails—rambling, repetitive, and riddled with errors. I forwarded one to my friend Stacey for advice. “Is English his second language?” she’d asked. She wasn’t being rude—it was a genuine question.

How had I missed this until a few months ago? How have I, a writer, ignored that my fiancé can’t string together a coherent sentence? Have I been so blinded by his charm—or maybe by my own desperation to believe in us—that I’ve tolerated this glaring red flag?

It’s not just his writing. Timmy is always talking, always filling the space, leaving me no room to reflect, to think. Normally, I use my shows and podcasts to let my mind wander, to process and identify patterns. Walking used to help, too, but it’s not safe to walk here, and Timmy never comes with me anyway.

Without that mental downtime, I’ve been blindsided by Timmy’s flaws. Now, they’re glaring. His facade is cracking, revealing someone lacking basic skills or sophistication. The man I thought was my equal now feels like an unqualified stranger.

But then I feel guilty. So what if he struggles with writing or social nuances? Maybe that’s more a reflection of the system than him. I’m naturally good with words—should I judge someone else for not having that gift?

And he is creative. He’s great at brainstorming ideas, especially for my darker, gorier storylines. His graphic design work is thoughtful and layered with meaning.

Maybe that’s his real strength. Maybe I’m being too harsh.

I tell myself to let it go.

He’s right.

I’m a total bitch.

I need to be nicer.

When I walk out of the bathroom, dressed for dinner, Timmy freezes. His jaw drops.

“Who are you all dressed up like that for?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “Do you have a date?”

I laugh. “We’re both going to see my friend, remember?”

“I guess… I just didn’t expect you to look like that. ” He gestures vaguely at my romper, his expression unreadable.

“Like what?”

“You look… classy. Sophisticated.”

“Okay?” I say, unsure whether to take it as a compliment.

“I’m so proud to have you as my fiancée,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “You’re so gorgeous. I can’t wait to show you off.”

Dinner is fine, though I’m on edge the entire time. Timmy sits at the end of the table, strangely quiet. I’m relieved he’s holding back, but constantly brace for him to dominate the conversation. He does a few times, mostly with the group of women at our end of the table, but not as much as usual.

As I watch him interact, a sinking feeling takes hold. One of my friend’s guests at the dinner lives nearby and wants to hang out again, but I know it’s impossible while I’m with Timmy.

He’d never tolerate it.

Timmy has made it starkly clear—it’s him and me, ride or die. Friendships encroach on his sense of ‘us-ness.’ Living on the far side of the Cay only isolates me further, cutting me off from people I’d naturally gravitate toward. Maybe that’s why he wanted us to move there in the first place.

“I think instead of fighting, we should calm down and bang it out,” Timmy says one night, grinning.

I blink. It’s the most reasonable thing he’s suggested in weeks. “That would be great,” I say. “But I’m still going to be mad if you do something dumb.”

“Well, I won’t do anything dumb,” he promises. “And if we get annoyed at each other, we’ll just fuck instead of yelling.”

“Deal,” I say, laughing.

It sounds perfect—fighting less, having more sex. Win-win.

But, in reality, when we fight, there’s no way sex could ever be the solution. His sneer, his reptilian eyes—they’re terrifying. And if I try to reach out to touch him during an argument, he shrugs me off or snaps, almost threatening to hit me.

There’s nothing sexy about that.

Timmy’s flaws are becoming impossible to ignore. His inability to read a room, his endless talking, his lack of basic skills—all of it is piling up, making me question everything.

But what’s worse is the control. His jealousy, his need to dominate every moment, every thought. He’s taken over my life, leaving no room for me to breathe, to reflect, to exist outside of him.

And yet, I feel stuck. Isolated. Trapped by his demands, his moods, his rules. I thought we were building a life together, but it feels more like he’s building a cage for me.

I miss the version of Timmy I thought I knew—the fun, creative, loving man who seemed like my soulmate. But maybe that version never existed. Maybe I’ve been in love with a mirage.

The thought makes me feel like a fool.

But also—finally—awake.