Page 33

CHAPTER 33

BAM-BAM

MARGAUX

F or the first time in what feels like forever, Timmy manages to be nice to me for more than an hour. It’s a rare occurrence, like a blue moon, and I find myself leaning into the possibility of a good day.

He suggests a drive around the island, claiming he wants to show me some of his favorite spots. The suggestion alone is enough to soften my mood.

We drive to a famous garden, a lush tropical haven overlooked by a popular restaurant. The air is thick with the scent of moss and greenery, and bees and cicadas create a gentle symphony in the background. The towering palms and vibrant flowers feel like a setting pulled straight out of paradise.

As we make our way deeper into the verdant garden, Timmy leans close, his voice low and mischievous. “Let’s fuck.”

“Here?” I ask, my brow arching in disbelief. “For real?”

The sheer forbidden nature of the idea causes my pussy to clench, and sends a thrill down my spine. And he’s being so cute and romantic that I’m feeling up for it.

I turn around so my back faces him, and he yanks my pants down just enough to expose my ass, then lowers his own board shorts. He lines himself up with my entrance and enters my pussy with his tip.

He barely thrusts three times before pulling away, yanking his pants up as if someone had caught him mid-crime.

“Okay, that was too much even for me,” he admits. “I got the tip in there, but then I was worried people were going to walk past. Or that the restaurant would open and people would see us from up there. I don’t want to get in trouble for having my dick out.”

The irony. I wish he’d had the same concern at my first apartment.

It’s a bizarre moment, but his sudden burst of logic is oddly endearing. Responsibility over spontaneity? Now that’s hot. Overriding his spontaneous, self-serving impulses with an assessment of the consequences.

I decide in this moment that that is way sexier than any outdoor tryst could ever be.

I want to see more of it.

Accountability and responsible decision-making should both be actual porn categories.

We giggle like kids and sprint back to the car holding hands. The good mood carries over as we grab a meal and make small talk over drinks. He’s sweet, affectionate, and for a moment, it’s like a flashback of when we first met.

But of course, the peace is short-lived. Timmy snaps over nothing—again—and starts yelling at me while we’re out. I’ve grown so used to the cycle that it barely phases me anymore. Nothing good ever lasts with Timmy. This is nothing new.

Instead of engaging, though, I focus on the small victory of finding a New Zealand steak and cheese pie at a nearby food truck. Nothing like a taste of home to bring me back to center.

Up and down, back and forth. The Timmy show on repeat, with a hint of sunshine through the storm clouds every now and then.

Back at home, the cycle takes another turn as Timmy decides we should cook together. He suggests making pavlova and meat pies—a strange combo, but I’m willing to roll with it.

We move around the kitchen like a well-rehearsed team, laughing and stealing bites of food as we work. Timmy picks songs to play in the background, and there’s lots of cuddling and kissing—his hands gentle on my back, some ass-grabbing, and the occasional playful spank as we navigate around each other.

He asks thoughtful questions about my methods and even shows me a few of his own tricks.

It feels… normal. Healthy, even.

It’s the kind of intimacy I crave, where we’re partners rather than combatants.

“Fuck, this is amazing,” Timmy groans as he bites into a flaky pie. His smile is genuine, and for a moment, I let myself believe this is who he really is.

“Oh my gosh yes,” I say, after trying it myself. “The puff pastry needs a little work, but the seasoning is amazing. You did a great job.”

“ We did a great job,” I reply. “I love you, babe.”

He grins, leaning in for a kiss, puff pastry crumbs sticking to our lips.

“Hot,” I joke, wiping them away.

“You’re hot,” grins Timmy.

I laugh, meeting his adoring gaze. These are the moments I hold onto.

They’re the reason I stay, the reason I keep hoping.

A few days later, I decide to wear my leopard-print overalls. They’re cute as hell, and comfortable—a perfect fit for the day ahead.

“But I want to wear those,” Timmy says, frowning.

I blink. “They’re mine. And they don’t even fit you.”

“They do if I adjust the straps,” he insists, his pout deepening. “I tried them on the other day.”

Sighing, I hand them over and find something else to wear.

By the time we get to the liquor aisle of the convenience store, he’s strutting along in my overalls like he owns the place.

I snap a picture and send it to Alice.

Alice:

Could somebody get fucking Tarzan?!

Put the other strap on, Bam Bam.

I laugh so hard I nearly drop my phone. With his outfit, long sun-streaked hair and childlike enthusiasm, Timmy looks like a mix between a lost caveman and a walking meme. His sense of adventure and wild fashion choices make me laugh, even if they come at the expense of my wardrobe.

I show him the message from Alice, and he beams from ear to ear.

I’ve never dated someone who borrows my clothes and hair ties and sunglasses, let alone steals my favorite roller derby shorts. But his joy in these little things is infectious, like having a best friend who also wants to bang you.

That’s what he is—someone adventurous who wants to spend time only with me. Who makes me laugh every single day. Who plans big for our shared future.

Despite the chaos, these moments of camaraderie keep me hooked.

He’s been so sweet lately, I can’t help but believe he’s making progress. There’s a glimmer of hope—of a future where the highs outweigh the lows.

For now, I’m addicted to the highs of our love. They put me right back on cloud nine, and I convince myself we can make it work.

Later in the day, for reasons only Timmy knows, he decides to run away again. It’s like clockwork.

Me:

Alice:

What’s that—the record for most times in a day?

Also, whenever you send that to me, I put it to the soundtrack of that silent movie instrument.

I can’t help but laugh at her reply, even as I feel the familiar weight of disappointment settle in my chest.

This is the Timmy show, on repeat.

Highs, lows, and little in between.

I just wish I could find the off switch.