Page 21

CHAPTER 21

A HOUSE OF POLISHED GLASS

MARGAUX

B y some miracle, we make it to the airport and find our gate.

He demands a drink at the airport bar.

I’m so paranoid he’s going to run out of the complex and refuse to visit his parents again, that I acquiesce, hoping to pacify him.

On the plane, he alternates between moments of charm and bursts of irritation.

Flight attendants hand out complimentary punch cocktails.

Timmy takes his eagerly and drinks it in two big sips.

“You’re such a bitch,” he mutters, but he’s smiling, as if we’re playing some twisted game.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Then he reaches over and smacks the plastic cup containing my cocktail out of my hand. Pomegranate-colored liquid soaks my pants.

Outraged, I smack him on the arm, hard.

I feel like I’m constantly around a very large, very cruel, five-year-old.

But maybe once we get to Montana, he’ll feel at home and he’ll be so excited to see his family that he’ll remain calm for the visit. Please let that be the case .

I think back to when I met up with his ex, Jennifer, and her friend, and she told me about how Timmy behaved when they visited Montana together. How he ended up lashing out and behaving so badly that police had to be called, and he was arrested.

A shiver creeps up my spine.

Please don’t let that happen this time .

When we get to Montana, Phil is waiting to pick us up as promised.

From the moment we arrive, Timmy slips seamlessly into his best-behavior mode, his demeanor upbeat as he fills his dad in on Sunset Cay life as we drive back to his parents’ place.

The home is large and inviting, and his mother is waiting for us at the front door. She embraces me warmly. “It’s so nice to have you here, Margaux,” she says. “We’ve heard so much about you! It’s wonderful to finally meet you!”

I smile, immediately feeling welcomed. Her kindness is a balm to my frazzled nerves, and for a moment, I let myself believe that everything might actually be okay. This isn’t so bad, after all. Fuck the events I can’t go to anymore. This is so much better.

We all sit in the living room, and Timmy cracks open two hard seltzers and hands me one.

I’m mortified as he makes an announcement I wasn’t expecting.

“Margaux was on a game show,” he says proudly. “We have to watch her episode! She did so well!” He gazes at me with admiration, placing his hand on the small of my back. “She’s brilliant!”

His words melt my residual concerns about this visit.

He’s beaming—in his element—as his dad searches for the game show episode and puts it on.

His sister comes in and glances at the TV screen, and then at me. She points at me on the TV. “That you?”

I nod.

“Wow,” she says. “That’s awesome.”

When I participated in the game show a couple of years ago, the topics were randomly assigned, and mine turned out to be Spelling—so I kicked ass and won five thousand dollars for me and my game show partner to split.

His family watches with rapt attention, their admiration for my performance genuine. The doorbell rings, and his mother rushes to the door.

It’s Timmy’s older brother and his wife, Emma, who Timmy had mentioned earlier. They’re friendly and excited to meet me, and to see Timmy, who they haven’t seen in quite some time.

His cousin Janet even comes over. It sounds like she and Timmy were close growing up. “You’re going to love her, too!” he’d said with excitement. “You’re into a lot of the same stuff!”

I blush profusely when Phil insists on replaying the game show so they too can watch it.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel seen. Not as a victim or a burden, but as someone capable and accomplished and welcome.

The rest of the night is merry, and we eat well as Timmy and his family reminisce about visits gone by and childhood stories.

I smile, content at the normalcy of the evening, and beyond thrilled at the way Timmy is behaving. He’s sociable, entertaining, polite, helpful—the requisite ‘good son’. He’s behaving in a way that makes me proud to be with him, even.

Maybe there’s real hope for him yet.

The rest of the visit is fairly uneventful, with Timmy on his best behavior the entire time. I’m honestly shocked he’s able to maintain an even keel for so long given how he behaves back in the Cay.

I suggest an outing on our last day, to a brunch place and a butterfly pavilion I’d visited with a friend on a prior trip.

Everyone is agreeable, and we have a wonderful day enjoying good food, each other’s company, and some gorgeous butterflies. I even get to hold a tarantula.

Timmy was right—Janet and I do get along very well. We exchange contact information and promise to stay in touch.

But, while everyone is very friendly, I can’t help but notice the way Phil speaks to Timmy’s mom.

Phil, so calm and composed in public, has a condescending tone in his voice that makes my stomach churn, his words toward her carrying an undercurrent of frustration over even the smallest things.

The sheer volume of his voice is enough to make me wince. I can hear him from the guest bedroom we’re staying in, all the way on the other side of the house.

I’m shocked, honestly, because he seems like a very calm, good guy. Until he speaks to his wife.

And because if this is the way he talks to her with a newcomer around, as well as two grown men who love their mother, I can’t even imagine how he speaks to her when they’re alone.

She just seems to let it slide, brushing it off with practiced ease, her demeanor serene as if nothing happened.

I really feel for her, because she seems like such a sweet lady.

But I can’t unhear the harshness in his tone, or the way he seems to expect her to absorb his anger without protest.

It reminds me of Timmy—how he can be charming and warm one moment, and then cruel and cutting the next. I wonder if this is where he learned it.

And because she’s so chill about it, I figure maybe I’m the one with the problem.

God knows, my parents didn’t have the healthiest communication style. I think about their volatile arguments, the way they could go from screaming matches to silent dinners as if nothing had happened.

Is this just how families are? Or is this family—like mine—built on a foundation of things left unsaid?

So I normalize it, at least for now.

But a little voice in the back of my head nags at me.

Is this household really normal? Or is there more to it than meets the eye?

I shiver, not wanting to know the real answer.

As we prepare to leave Montana, I feel a strange mix of relief and melancholy. The trip has been a reprieve from the chaos of Sunset Cay, but it’s also been a stark reminder that dysfunction runs deep in Timmy’s life.

For now, I cling to the moments of peace and connection, hoping against hope that they’re a sign of better days to come.

But deep down, I know that in this house—just like in my relationship with Timmy—everything unpleasant is swept under the rug.

And rugs can only hold so much before they start to show what’s hidden beneath.