Page 29

CHAPTER 29

brOKE-ASS brEAKDOWN

MARGAUX

L ater, I try to escape the tension with a drive. I take Sabre, my ever-loyal cat, hoping for a moment of peace and to make sure Timmy doesn’t do anything to him.

But as fate would have it, the truck shudders and comes to a complete stop in the middle of the main road.

Fuck.

I dial 911, but just as the dispatcher answers, a kind man covered in tattoos and wearing a massive gold chain approaches. He tells me to put the truck in neutral, and pushes it down a side street while smoke billows from under the hood.

I call Timmy’s dad, desperate for advice.

“We had a falling out, and I went for a drive, and the truck’s broken down and I don’t know what to do,” I explain.

“Yeah, he called me,” Phil says. “He’s really upset because he felt like Janet was trying to drive a wedge between the two of you. She shouldn’t have been talking about him. He’s just a really nice guy.”

I don’t really know what he’s talking about, but I am aware of his brewing animosity toward his cousin, Janet, ever since we became friends in Montana at his suggestion.

Changing subjects, I describe what’s going on with the truck.

Phil suggests it might be an oil issue.

Before I can act on it, my phone buzzes. It’s Timmy.

“Dad said you need help with the truck,” he says.

“I don’t need help from you,” I snap, hanging up immediately.

The truck cools down enough for me to limp it a little farther down the street before it gives out again. Timmy calls back, and I begrudgingly answer. I describe what’s going on.

“It sounds like a hose has come loose,” he says.

I look under the hood, and he’s right. A hose is loose, but whether it happened naturally or through Timmy’s meddling, I can’t be sure.

With no other option, I wait for him to arrive and fix it.

It’s hard when your abuser is also your rescuer, when they’ve fashioned it so there’s nobody else around who can help. When you have to rely on them to live your day-to-day life. And when they’re potentially the ones causing the issues that they then need to fix.

When he finally shows up, his smugness is palpable. He fixes the hose with the air of someone expecting a medal.

The drive home is silent and thankfully, short. Timmy basks in his self-congratulatory glow, his hero complex in full swing, while I seethe in quiet rage. This is the cycle he thrives on—creating problems, swooping in to ‘save the day,’ and keeping me dependent on him. Relying on him for help he shouldn’t need to give in the first place.

It’s exhausting, demeaning, and utterly relentless. And yet, for reasons I can’t quite articulate, I’m still here. Still enduring it. Still hoping, somehow, for a different ending to this same story.

THE NEXT DAY

Timmy is driving me nuts as usual, running off in a huff and returning at sporadic intervals, so I decide to escape for a while. That way, I can blare loud music and not sit in the apartment, miserable, wondering where Timmy has gone and when he’ll return.

I grab my keys and head out, driving down to the point. The salty air and blaring music in my car are my temporary antidotes to the suffocating toxicity at home.

I don’t even get far before my phone rings.

Timmy. Of course.

I sigh and answer.

“I saw you drive by,” he says.

“And?” I roll my eyes, gripping the steering wheel. “Why? What are you doing? Who are you with?”

“Nobody,” he replies quickly.

“Are you with the people I saw you with at the store?” I press.

“No, I was just cruising,” he says defensively.

In the Cay, ‘cruising’ usually means stopping to chat with anyone who will give you the time of day. Small talk, gossip, or making some kind of half-assed connection with anybody and everybody in his vicinity..

I hang up, not in the mood to dissect his vague answers.

Moments later, my phone buzzes with a text from him:

Timmy:

Where are you going? Please don’t tell me you have a boyfriend in there.

I message Alice and fill her in:

Me:

Like I have a fucking boyfriend that I tuck under my boob or something. What the actual fuck.

I don’t have time to write books when I am in this relationship, let alone find a spare boyfriend. And I am also the most loyal fucking person in the world. This is so nuts.

Alice:

This is definitely a Detective Pikachu moment.

Like, where is your head?

Also, projection much.

When I get home, Timmy’s hot on my heels. He drops his phone and Apple Watch on the table, leaves without a word, and slams the door. Clearly, he’s upset that I dared to drive somewhere without him by my side. It’s like he’s offended by my mere existence as an independent person.

Later, he comes back with an apology on his lips. It lasts about five minutes. Soon, he’s screaming again.

“All your triggers are fake!” he yells. “You don’t really have PTSD. You made that up! You made up being sexually assaulted because you wanted attention, you dumb bitch!”

His words slice through me like knives. I put my headphones on, drowning him out with music while he continues to yell. Eventually, he storms out again, slamming the door behind him.

LATER

Jo:

Share your location with me.

Her concern is palpable through her message, as if something has set off her spidey senses.

Jo:

I want to know where you are.

It hits differently when it’s coming from a friend, not a partner. Especially when it’s because of a partner.

Me:

Why?

I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Jo:

I want to know you’re safe.

And if he hurts you again, I want to be able to point the police in the right direction.

Her words land like a slap. A slap that’s meant to wake me up.

Me:

Jesus, Jo.

Jo:

I’m serious.

You need to be careful.

You know how dangerous men like him can be.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind flashes to the times he’s come close—to the antler incident, to the moments where I thought, This is it. This is how it ends.

He wouldn’t really kill me, would he?

But he’s said he would. And the fact that I’m even asking the question is proof enough of how far I’ve fallen. How warped my sense of normalcy has become.

And he always denies that it’s his fault. Like he doesn’t understand that it’s possible to have healthy conflict and disagreements and figure it out, because that’s what adults do.

A wild tantrum in the body of a two-hundred pound, six-foot-two man mad about a show I’m watching is much different from a toddler mad he didn’t get an extra cookie. You’re supposed to grow out of that phase, but I guess some men never do.

And that’s dangerous.

And it’s dangerous when men hate women, period. Which I’m increasingly starting to see in him. It’s very concerning.

But in the moment, he always has a way of talking me down, of making me feel like I’m blowing things out of proportion.

That it’s all in my head.

That he loves me more than anyone else.

That the other people are against us, and so we need to be a team.

“Team Ginger Shark,” he’ll say, even inventing a special handshake just for us.

“Team Ginger Shark,” I’ll reply, although deep in my gut I don’t know that it’s a safe team for me to be on.