Page 114

CHAPTER 114

HAT TRICK

MARGAUX

T immy’s hats are starting to look good. The designs are solid, some even creative and unique, but there’s no momentum. No sales. No attempt to move them from ideas to reality.

He spends hours tinkering, lost in the details of his art, but the logistics of running a business—marketing, outreach, actually selling—remain untouched.

“I just want to design,” he says one day. “ That’s the part I enjoy.”

“I get it,” I reply. “That’s the fun part, right? But there’s other stuff that goes into running a business.”

“You spent a lot of time doing that marketing stuff for your books,” he adds, his voice laced with disdain. “I don’t find it fulfilling. I just want someone to buy my hats. I won’t be doing that kind of thing, because I don’t enjoy it.”

It feels like a slap in the face.

“Do you think I want to spend my days on social media, marketing instead of writing?” I shoot back. “Do you think my books magically sell themselves without any promotion? Do you think your hats are so incredible that people will just flock to buy them without effort? Do you think you’re somehow exempt from the work that every creator has to put in?”

He blinks, caught off guard.

My words are sharp, maybe too sharp, but his entitlement ignites something visceral in me. His audacity drips into the room, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

It’s not just the imprecision of his words that inflames me.

Timmy is great at painting a picture of the future. He talks in vibrant detail about success—about customers loving his work, about his designs taking off.

I’m good at this too—I can see the vision so clearly.

But the difference between us is glaring. I take that vision and put in the effort to make it real. He expects the universe to hand it to him. Big talk and big dreams, but little effort or action.

My stomach roils, my resentment returning with a vengeance.

The next day, Timmy sleeps in until lunchtime, and when he wakes, I complain about his ongoing lack of motivation.

“I can’t create when you’re nagging at me,” Timmy pouts, slumping on the bed.

“You can’t create when you’re sleeping,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

“I was thinking about designs and the manufacturing process,” he argues, crossing his arms.

“You were snoring and muttering about ‘pussies’ and ‘dicks,’” I retort, shaking my head.

He pauses, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Well, I intended to get up and work on it. But now you’ve started bugging me, and I’m too annoyed with you to do anything.”

And just like that, his lack of productivity becomes my fault. I asked him to wake up before midday, and now I’m being punished.

His excuses pile up like debris after a storm, blocking any path forward.

I try to attack it from multiple angles, attempting to get him to see logic—but the harder I try, the more he resists.

I see few differences between him and a toddler—except that he’s bigger, louder, and more vindictive. The rage within him simmers constantly, just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

He’s always looking to be hurt, and he’s always looking for me to pay for any perceived indiscretion—figuratively and literally.

Anything good I’ve done earlier in the day vanishes.

Anything bad he’s ever done? Forgotten.

All that’s left is me, standing as the embodiment of his every flaw and failure.

The tension between us explodes one evening.

“You had me move all the way out here, away from everyone I know,” Timmy accuses, his tone venomous.

“What?! That was your idea,” I counter. “And I don’t know anyone out here either. You said we could move here to focus on our work. I’m holding up my end of that deal. You’re barely doing anything.”

“Well, you drink too much,” he snaps, his argument spiraling into irrelevance.

“What does that have to do with anything? You drink, too! And don’t you dare try to make this about me.”

The fight escalates, his words cutting deeper with every exchange.

“You always have to be so nasty,” he growls.

“I’m not being nasty,” I plead. “I’m trying to have a conversation. I’m trying to figure out how we can move forward.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, storming out the door.

The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates through the room, leaving me alone with the echo of his words.