Page 127

CHAPTER 127

THE LAST FUCKING STRAW (IS GORDON RAMSAY)

MARGAUX

I ’ve been diving more and more into the subject of narcissistic relationships, lately. Obsessively . It’s become a compulsion, because every article, every case study, every description of a narcissist feels like it’s been ripped straight from Timmy’s playbook.

If there were a picture of a narcissist in the dictionary, Timmy wouldn’t just have a photo—he’d have a full multi-page spread.

The more I read, the clearer it becomes. Survivors of narcissistic abuse rarely leave because of the physical or psychological torture. It’s usually something tangential, something seemingly small compared to the magnitude of the abuse itself.

A moment that lights the final match.

For many, it’s cheating.

For me, though, that final match is Gordon Ramsay.

The producer of MasterChef calls me, her voice bubbling with excitement.

“Margaux! Oh my gosh, we loved your audition tape and application! We’d like to consider you and Timmy for the show, but we need him to submit his separate application.”

I’m elated. The upcoming season is going to feature couples, and it sounds like they’re interested in us! This is huge .

I run to Timmy, grinning ear to ear.

“Timmy, you have to fill out the application!” I say, pointing to his laptop. “This is so exciting!”

He looks at the form and grows quiet. At first, I think he’s concentrating—reading isn’t his strong suit, after all—but deep down, I know what’s really happening.

It’s the passport question.

Still, he says nothing.

We record a second video, explaining why we’d be ideal cast members. For a brief moment, I see a flicker of the Timmy I fell for—the funny, creative, charming guy who could light up a room.

He banters with me, his eyes kind, his smile charming. And for a fleeting second, I believe in the facade again.

It would be silly for the producers not to cast us.

But my gut nags at me. I know he doesn’t have a passport. I know that might sink our chances of appearing on the show.

Surely he can get one, though? It might cost a few hundred dollars to expedite it, but it would be worth it to be able to travel.

I look at the passport site, and then it hits me—if you have outstanding child support, you cannot get a passport. I had no idea.

It would literally cost about thirty thousand dollars for Timmy to get a passport.

Not only will we not be selected for the show. Timmy is never going to be able to travel with me.

Right after learning Timmy can’t travel, I hop into the beater truck—a gift from his ex, not something he earned—and dial into my therapy session.

Kathleen, my therapist, is my emotional rock. She’s been my anchor on this part of the Cay, and I’ve been dreading her departure as she wraps up her postgraduate studies. Today is our final session.

“How do you feel about not being able to go overseas with Timmy?” she asks after I fill her in.

“He’s like the gift that keeps on giving—I never know what wonderful new thing he’s going to find to torture me with, or that I’m going to find he’s been hiding from me.”

Kathleen laughs softly. “The gift that keeps on giving—that really does describe Timmy, doesn’t it?”

“Honestly,” I begin, “if I’d known all of this earlier, it would’ve been a deal breaker. Travel is one of my greatest passions. And if I’d known he had a kid—especially one he owed thirty grand in back child support for—well, I think that would have been a deal breaker too. These are things I never signed up for.”

Her voice softens. “What do you want in a partner, Margaux? Taking Timmy out of the equation, what do you need in a relationship? An equal? A provider?”

I think for a moment. “An equal,” I say finally. “I don’t necessarily need someone to provide for me, but I want a partner who pulls their weight. Someone who shares my love for adventure and travel. I’m going to travel with or without Timmy, though—I’m not going to give up that part of my life because of yet another of his terrible life choices. But I know if I leave him behind, he’ll make it a living hell. He’ll sulk, he’ll accuse me of cheating, he’ll talk about meeting up with other women—it’s not worth the stress. I’d be worrying about what he was up to the entire time—it would be miserable.”

Kathleen doesn’t hold back. “We get one hundred years on this earth if we’re lucky. You need to think about what you want, and whether Timmy fits into that or not.” She pauses. “Margaux, you are one of the most generous, kind, empathetic, beautiful, smart, and wonderful human beings I’ve ever met. I understand why you love him, and why you’re still with him, but at the end of the day, I will always be one hundred percent Team Margaux.”

Talk about a mic drop moment.

Her words are a gut punch, but the kind I need.

And I know she’s right. I’ve known she’s been right all along.

I tear up, and we end our call.

I’m really going to miss her.

I’m sitting in a fucking beater truck, looking around at the cockroaches scuttling across the dashboard, the ants crawling along the door.

This is what I’ve been reduced to—taking therapy calls in a dilapidated truck because Timmy eavesdropped on my intake session, and I can’t trust him not to invade my privacy.

It’s pathetic.

I think about all the things Timmy has already stolen from me.

Gordon Ramsay is the latest. But before him, there was Chelsea Handler—he tried to ruin that night. Before her, Machine Gun Kelly—whose music I still listen to, though it stings. Sunset Cay, once a paradise, is now tainted by his toxic presence. He’s eroded my relationship with my sister. He’s damaged my self-esteem beyond recognition. He’s broken my fucking skull.

He’s taken so much from me.

But he will not take travel.

Sure, I live in one of the most beautiful locations on the planet, but I’m still getting that itch to explore. I’ve talked about travel plans with Timmy, and he’s gone along with it, future faking about how excited he is to travel with me, knowing full well that he can’t.

I picture him sulking at home while I explore Europe or Asia or New Zealand while he lines up women on Tinder or reconnects with Back-Burner Barbie.

The thought is nauseating.

Then he’d accuse me of cheating when I was away, even though he’d be the only one in our relationship with that on their bingo card.

No . That’s just not going to work for me.

I meant what I said to Kathleen—I do want an equal. A partner. Someone who contributes to our relationship just as much as I do—hell, maybe even a fraction more. I’d be okay with that.

And I’m done.

He’s not my equal.

He’s a black hole, sucking in all the light and joy from my life.

He manipulates, he lies, he projects his insecurities onto me, and he calls me the villain.

But not anymore.

This is the last fucking straw.