Page 34

CHAPTER 34

TRICKLE TRUTHING

MARGAUX

I t’s late—11:15 PM—when Timmy stomps into the apartment, reeking of cigarettes. He heads straight to the shower without a word, but the smell lingers, curling in the air like a tangible reminder of his deceit.

When he emerges from the bathroom, I speak up right away. “You were out there smoking with random people again.” I sigh.

“No, I wasn’t,” he says.

My patience, already worn thin, snaps.

“You smoked cigarettes. You smell like them. Just fucking admit it,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “And you weren’t alone.”

Timmy freezes mid-step, guilt flickering across his face before he attempts to wave it off. “Yeah, I was smoking out there with one of the aunties. She’s like 75 years old,” he mumbles defensively, as if that makes it better.

“Timmy, if I went smoking late at night with an old man, you’d lose it. It wouldn’t matter if he was 105. That’s not the point.”

“See? This is why I didn’t tell you!” he sneers, his tone laced with irritation.

“Why? Because it’s dumb?” I shoot back, raising an eyebrow.

His frown deepens, but he doesn’t answer.

“Don’t lie to me,” I press.

“Don’t call me names,” he snaps.

“I didn’t call you anything,” I reply with a shrug. “And also, don’t lie.”

His shoulders sag, and the fight seems to drain out of him. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he says reluctantly, before adding venomously, “But fuck you , you’re the one who’s disgusting.”

The insult lands like a slap, and I blink, stunned. “What the fuck? Why am I disgusting this time?”

“Every time you drink, you start a fight,” he grumbles.

I laugh bitterly. “Are you looking in a mirror?”

That’s it. He bolts to the back room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the apartment.

I sigh, exhausted by the endless cycle. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wish he’d say something kind, like, ‘Congratulations, I’m proud of you for finishing your book.’ That’s the Timmy I fell for, the one who used to lift me up.

But now? Now I get called a cunt. Now I get his projection, his cruelty, his anger.

I grab my phone and message Alice, my constant lifeline.

Alice:

I’m fucking proud of you for submitting your book. That’s a big one!

Also, I’m not a fan of this trickle truthing he’s doing here.

What is he hiding?!

Me:

Thank you. It’s not my best or my worst. But in the circumstances, it’s the best I could do.

Trickle truthing. I laugh and cry at the realness. I feel this so hard.

Alice:

I can’t take credit. That’s a real term!

I’m also mad at him for telling weird lies.

Just. Be. Honest.

“Yeah, Karen and I went smoking and chatting.”

The issue isn’t the cigarettes or the company. It’s the lie.

I sigh, grateful for Alice’s grounding presence but deeply unsettled by Timmy’s constant need to deceive, even over the smallest things.

A FEW DAYS LATER

The pattern continues, escalating as it always does. The latest offense?

I refuse to buy Timmy a cigarette.

Me:

Fed up, I text him.

Me:

Goodbye. I deserve a guy one million times better than you.

Timmy:

I’ll just die, hopefully.

Me:

You’re gross. Going out in the middle of the night begging for cigarettes is pretty fucking gross, and you know I’m not okay with it. So we’re done.

Timmy:

I’ll make my preparations.

Seconds later, my phone buzzes again, this time with a GIF of Pete Davidson as Chad on SNL , saying, “Okay.”

The audacity. How dare he?!

Me:

Pete Davidson is mine, not yours. Fuck off.

Later, Timmy returns, acting like nothing happened.

I try to ignore him and roller skate around the apartment to clear my head, a mistake on the concrete tile floor.

I fall backward onto my tailbone—twice—pain shooting through me each time. I groan, wishing I’d listened to one of my derby friends’ advice about strapping a cushion to my ass.

As I’m catching my breath, I notice Timmy scrolling through my phone. His face darkens. “What the fuck is this?” he snaps, waving the phone in my face. “Talking about me behind my back?”

“To be fair,” I reply, snatching my phone back, “you behave like an asshole, so that’s how I describe you.”

He storms off to the back room, muttering, “I’m packing my bags! I’m flying to my parents because you’re a fucking bitch, making me look bad!”

“Okay,” I shrug, too tired to care.

I message Alice again.

Alice:

Yeah right? You told him to leave.

Packing his bags is what is supposed to happen.

Me:

Also, I fell on my tailbone twice, so everything hurts, and it’s making processing emotions harder.

Alice:

Jesus! Do you at least wear a helmet when you do?

Me:

Pads but no helmet this time.

I thought we were making progress.

Alice:

Progress is harder to make when only one person is doing it.

Her words stick with me, a cruel truth I already know but need to hear again.