Page 16

CHAPTER 16

FAILING MONTANA

MARGAUX

T he night before the trip to Montana, Timmy paces the apartment like a caged animal—a drunk and belligerent one. His movements are erratic, his expression dark.

There’s an edge to his voice when he finally speaks, turning his attention to me. “I’m going to give you a noogie,” he says with a cruel smirk, that cold, reptilian look flashing in his eyes.

But there’s no noogie. Instead, his hands go to my throat, his arm locking around my chest.

At first, I freeze. Surely, he’ll let go in a second, right? He’s joking, right?

But the seconds stretch into minutes, and every time I try to push him off, his grip tightens. He’s too strong for me to break free.

Three and a half hours pass while he does this intermittently. I sit, numb, staring at the wall, wondering if this will escalate into something worse.

And he just cackles and looks at me like I’m the one with the problem.

“Timmy, please stop,” I finally plead, my voice hoarse. “You’re hurting me.”

He cackles. “Fuck you,” he snaps. “You’re a fucking bitch, and I’m not fucking going to Montana!” His words are slurred, but his anger is sharp.

When I manage to wrench myself away, adrenaline takes over. I run straight out the door and down the outdoor path, heading for the security shack.

Tina, the security guard, looks up at me, her brow furrowing.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her tone calm but concerned.

I tell her, the words tumbling out in a rush. My chest heaves, and my hands shake.

“Do you want me to call the police?” she offers.

“No, please don’t,” I beg. The thought of police intervention—and the chaos it would bring—feels unbearable. If they lock him up and he misses the trip, it’ll just make everything worse. I can already picture the aftermath.

Tina sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you two need to sort your shit out, or you won’t be able to live here much longer.” Her words are blunt, but there’s no judgment in her voice. I get the sense she’s seen it all before.

When I return to the apartment, Timmy is still here. He looks calmer, but I know better than to trust that. My eyes drift to my Funko Pop collection—three Post Malones, two Machine Gun Kellys, one Yungblud—all lined up neatly but placed upside down.

Weird flex, but okay.

It doesn’t take long for him to spiral again. His voice grows louder, more belligerent. “I’m not fucking going anywhere!” he shouts.

Desperate, I call his dad, Phil. My voice shakes as I whisper, “He says he’s not coming. He’s refusing to pack.”

“Put him on speaker,” Phil says, his tone measured, like this is just another Tuesday in Timmyland.

“Son? Are you there?” Phil’s voice echoes through the room.

“I’m not fucking going, Dad!” Timmy yells from the back room. “I’ll just stay here!”

Phil’s wife, Timmy’s mom, joins the call, her voice trembling. “Timmy, you’re so drunk! Calm down!”

Timmy slams the door on his way out, storming off into the night.

When Timmy eventually returns, he seems subdued, the alcohol finally dulling his edge. He slumps onto the bed, his energy spent. “I love you, you know,” he mumbles. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

My stomach twists at his words. If only they were true.

“It’s not about your intention, Timmy,” I reply, my voice quiet but firm. “It’s the crushing of my throat that hurts hours later. Intention or not, the impact is the same.”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” he says casually, as if he didn’t ‘jokingly’ strangle me for the past three-and-a-half hours and uninvite me from visiting his parents.

I frown, annoyed at his dismissive response. “It’s statistically possible you will harm me based on domestic violence data.”

He shrugs, as if we’re debating something trivial. “It was just an accident.”

“An accident?” I snap. “So the first time was on purpose, and this time was an accident?” My brow arches as I stare at him, daring him to explain his logic.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls a blanket around himself, retreating into the bed like a child who’s been scolded.

Unable to keep it all inside, I message Alice. It’s the middle of the night for her, but I know she has weird sleeping hours.

Me:

Do you happen to be awake?

Fifteen minutes later, she responds.

Alice:

Now!

Yes!

You okay? What's up?

Sorry, I'm a morning person but like not quite that morning.

Me:

Just got into a massive domestic bc BOY JOYS.

Alice:

It seems we're discovering we're lost halves of 1 mess.

Me:

I’m supposed to be flying in like 4-5 hours.

Alice:

Okay. First things first, are you okay?

It’s a question I don’t really know the answer to.

I fill her in, typing furiously. The words spill out like a confession.

I tell her everything—Timmy’s drinking, the noogie-that-wasn’t, the argument, the security guard.

Alice:

So drunk Timmy decides to grab someone's throat? That's super healthy.

Me:

Yes, in a noogie without the noogie part.

Alice:

His parents. They weren't like...alarmed?

Me:

Oh I’m sure they were.

He was like, ‘She isn’t coming to Montana.’

Alice:

It doesn’t sound like a good idea.

Me:

And they were like, ‘You’re so drunk Timmy.’

God knows what they actually thought of my live tweets of the past 3 hours or so. I kept them updated while their son acted insane.

Security said she was going to call the cops and I asked her not to.

She said she wouldn’t but I’m listening to my headphones really loud and hopefully she doesn’t bc I think he’s going to sleep.

He really just lost his shit. Kept saying ‘Oh I love you, I’d never hurt you’.

And I said, ‘It’s not the intention bro’, and that my throat still feels funny hours later.

And then I mentioned the domestic violence stats around strangulation, and the likelihood he would really harm me one day.

Alice:

It’s true. Especially strangulation—it's no joke.

It’s a massive predictor of future violence.

Her bluntness cuts through the fog of rationalizations I’ve been clinging to, and for a moment, I feel seen. Understood.

Me:

I told him that too. That it’s not just me—it’s statistics. That men who strangle their partners often escalate. And he didn’t like that info.

Alice’s reply comes swiftly:

Alice:

"How dare you show me the consequences of my actions! What am I, responsible for them?!"

I laugh despite myself, the absurdity of it all hitting me like a punchline to a terrible joke.

Me:

I’m kind of an asshole when people deserve it.

Oh, he’s all snuggled in his blankie now.

His parents are in their late 70s and are probably shitting themselves wondering what’s going on over here.

His dad didn’t complete an entire military career and corporate career for this bullshit.

Alice:

Deservedly shitting themselves. Kind of.

As Timmy curls up on the bed, snuggled under his blanket, I feel a pang of bitterness. His elderly parents are probably sitting at home, worried sick about what’s happening here. And what have they done? Enabled him.

Made excuses for him.

I glance at my phone, reading and rereading Alice’s messages. Her sarcasm and blunt truth-telling are a lifeline I didn’t know I needed at first, but am quickly coming to depend on.

Me:

He says he loves me, Alice.

But it doesn’t feel like love.

Her reply is immediate.

Alice:

Because it’s not.

I stare at those words, the truth of them sinking in.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for tonight, I have Alice.

And for tonight, that’s enough.