Page 24

CHAPTER 24

EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CLIFF

MARGAUX

T he tantrums escalate in frequency, each one more absurd than the last.

Timmy runs off to the rocks or the sea or the meth tents every chance he gets, like a petulant child putting himself in a self-imposed time-out. The apartment door beeps behind him with such regularity it could be mistaken for the sound of my sanity slipping away.

Each time he returns, he’s more unpredictable. His words cut sharper, his tone more venomous.

“I’m going to tell everybody who you really are,” he sneers one night, his voice dripping with malice.

I don’t respond. I’ve always been an open book—what could he possibly expose that I haven’t already?

“I’m going to destroy your life,” he growls, pacing like a caged animal.

I keep silent, wondering if he realizes he’s already doing just that.

“You’re going to prison for a felony!” he shouts, his voice shaking with indignation.

I quirk an eyebrow, genuinely curious. “ What felony?”

He narrows his eyes, desperate to conjure something out of thin air. “I’ll have you found guilty of a felony! You scraped the pillar next to the parking spot and scratched the car next to us!”

I can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t touch the car next to us. Sure, I brushed the pillar—it’s a tight squeeze. But at least I have a license. Call me when you get yours back, and then you can critique my parking.”

His face flushes red, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he storms into the back room and slams the door.

One night, he’s scrolling through his phone when I catch a glimpse of a message from one of his drug-dealing acquaintances:

Timmy’s Drug Dealer Friend:

Hey fag. Where are you?

The casual vulgarity of the exchange is infuriating. “Why is this your circle?” I snap, but he brushes it off with a nonchalant shrug.

When he disappears for hours again, I message Alice.

Me:

He’s in the sea or running on rocks or something. I don’t know.

Alice:

Sorry, that’s hilarious imagery.

"Hey, where’d Timmy go?"

"Oh, he’s in the sea."

I laugh, the absurdity of my life laid bare in her messages.

Alice:

He’s become a quest in a video game:

Find Timmy.

Hints: The Rocks, The Sea.

Deterrents: Unpredictable Behavior.

Me:

An enraged surfer angry about reality tv. Either in the sea or climbing a rock.

Alice:

Credit where it's due.

Me:

I looked at his phone just before and a drug dealer messaged him to say, ‘hey fag, where did you go?’ or something like that.

So I’ll see if he replies haha.

Alice:

Yeah, that's how I talk to my besties, too.

That's how you know our friends are quality.

Me:

Lmfao.

You are making me laugh, thank you.

Alice:

I clown with my friends, but I don't hurl slurs at them.

Me:

I told one of them that everyone here acts like fucking Peter Pans.

Think they get to laze around all day.

Me:

Maybe I need to send him to the rocks and then write.

I’ll figure out a trigger and say it. Like put on a show I don’t even want to watch. And then he will run off and I’ll write thousands of words.

Alice:

And I'll laugh for 50 years.

When your acknowledgements honor The Rocks.

Me:

To The Rocks. For giving me the space to write.

Alice:

“Thank you for your reliable presence and stable existence."

About 2 hours later

Me:

He never came back. Seems very strange. Has been like 90+ mins bordering 2 hours.

Didn’t take his phone or watch, so I can’t even see where he is.

Alice:

Hm. Has that ever happened before?

Me:

Yesterday was like 2 hours. But he had his watch so I could see where he was.

Unacceptable from my perspective.

Like are we 5 years old and run away with no way of getting in contact? No, no we are not.

Alice:

Do you want to go find him?

Me:

I don’t know where he would be and I live in a really shitty part of Sunset Cay.

Lots of tweakers everywhere.

I think about it. She makes a point. I can go see where he is.

Is it the safest option? No, it would be far safer to just sit here. Physically.

Mentally, I’m losing my mind, not knowing where he is or if he’s safe.

I walk down the road, and see him sitting at a bench with a bunch of the people who live in the tents.

Me:

I see him.

He stands up as he sees me approach.

“I’m coming back home, babe,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” I roll my eyes, not quite believing him.

Me:

He’s returning, apparently.

AN HOUR LATER

Timmy’s whistle cuts through the evening air like a siren. It’s sharp, shrill, and unmistakable.

I glance toward the ocean and there he is—fingers hooked around the chain-link fence, leaning over it like some deranged seagull, trying to get my attention.

He’s yelling something, too, though I can’t make it out over the sound of waves and his own nonsensical theatrics.

I roll my eyes and look back at the TV. I’m not about to entertain whatever fresh madness this is.

He whistles again, louder this time.

God, you’re embarrassing.

He comes into the apartment, grabs the truck key and the mailbox key, and walks toward the door.

“What are you doing with those?” I ask, concerned.

He ignores me and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Great, now I can’t even go anywhere.

I can’t even go to the pool because he has both fobs.

Me:

Omg, he was like hanging onto the fence whistling and trying to get my attention.

Alice:

This sounds like a bad rom-com.

Me:

He walked off with the truck keys and mailbox key. This makes no sense.

He’s always losing things—his phone, his keys, his shoes.

If he loses the keys, I’m going to lose my shit.

I ignored the whistling and the yelling bc that’s embarrassing.

Alice:

I’m sorry friend.

Eh, enjoy yourself. He can lay on the rocks if he wants to.

I laugh, the absurdity of the situation too much to process fully.

At least I have Alice to keep me grounded.

I keep ignoring him, but the audacity of his behavior is almost comical. Who the hell whistles at someone like they’re a dog?

Eventually, he returns to the apartment.

“You’re disgusting,” I say flatly, not even looking up. "Immature. A complete piece of shit."

I can feel the weight of his glare, but I don’t care. My vocabulary has expanded to new levels of insult lately. And my emotional intelligence? Absolutely plummeting.

“Wow, nice! Real nice!” He stalks off to the back room, muttering under his breath about how ungrateful I am for his… what? His existence ?

“Get the fuck out of my life!” I call out with a cheery voice. “It’ll be much better without you in it!”

He leaves again and comes back about twenty minutes later, dripping wet from the ocean and tracking sand all over the apartment. I can’t even keep track of his comings and goings.

I’m halfway through an episode of my show, the first real moment of relaxation I’ve had all day.

“You good?” I ask, not even looking up, feeling slightly guilty for insulting him earlier.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he huffs past me, grabs a towel, and heads back out, muttering to himself.

I shake my head.

Me:

He came back, wet and sandy, tracked crap everywhere, then left again. I think the rock-and-sea time-out plan is going well for him.

Alice:

That rock deserves an award for being his emotional support cliff.

I laugh, for what feels like the first time all day.

I sigh, sinking back into my pillows.

At least I have Alice.

At least I’m not crying anymore.