Page 36

CHAPTER 36

A VERY BOUNCY DAY

MARGAUX

F or the rest of our trip back to our apartment, and for the remainder of the day, Timmy continues to be apologetic, reflective even, and continues to swear he’ll follow through on his promises.

The next day, I update Alice about the truck and gardens escapade:

Alice:

The hell did he go?

Me:

I think it was a wake-up call for him. He’s apologized, and we had some good conversations where he realizes how much he’s been fucking up lately.

So there’s a plan, and we will see (therapist and meds adjustment, and not drinking so much).

Other than that, visiting with my friends was soooo nice!

And there were no runaway incidents yesterday.

When he was sleeping in his truck, he tried to make me think he was at his friend’s club, but it sounded like he was bluffing to piss me off, and was in the truck the whole time.

Which he now says he realizes was incredibly dumb

Alice:

I'll be curious to see if he follows through with the therapy and meds. My ex used to say the same in moments of clarity.

While his apologies and presentation of accountability felt real enough to believe, as always, the cracks appear quickly.

Two days later, as I’m rinsing dishes in the sink, Timmy wanders over, picks up a plate, and inspects it like a health inspector on a power trip.

He finds the tiniest speck of food stuck to the back.

“You can’t even do the dishes right,” he sneers. “You’re useless. You fucking suck.”

I freeze, the words stinging like a slap.

One: It’s just a plate. Rinse and move on.

Two: I had a perfectly functioning dishwasher at my old place before he got kicked out.

Three: Is this man seriously the dishes police ?

It’s not like he’s a dishwashing savant. Yet here he is, suddenly a pro at degrading me over something so trivial. Getting on my case and making me feel like shit.

LATER THAT NIGHT

Me:

He couldn’t do it, could he?

Alice:

Do what?

Me:

Not run away.

Alice:

He’s run off at least once a day for like the past 2 weeks

Me:

Yeah, it’s absurd.

Alice:

I’m sorry friend, but this is the standard

Me:

Yeah, it’s pretty dumb.

If I didn’t have the runaway pickle to send you I’d probably just cry.

But I’ve made a decision.

I’m not letting Timmy’s chaos derail my writing dreams anymore.

THE NEXT DAY

Timmy is mad again, though I have no idea why. It feels like he’s itching for an excuse—any reason—to justify running off to the tents again.

After spending time organizing the back room that he’d messed up in a rage days earlier, he returns to the living room. “Can’t you just be unconscious?” he sneers, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re so much better when you’re unconscious.”

I clench my fists, trying to stay calm. He’s baiting me, poking me until I snap. And then, of course, it’ll all be my fault. And then the whole situation will be attributed to me—my fault, the crazy unhinged fiancée who can’t control her temper.

“Why are you talking to me like that?” I ask, my voice shaking. “By the way, you smell like White Claw.:

His scowl deepens. “I do so much around here. I cleaned the back room for you. It took hours, and you’re so ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful?” I yell, my patience snapping. “It was only a mess because you made it that way! So you fixed the mess you caused. What do you want, a Nobel Peace Prize?!”

There’s a gleam in his eye—a sick satisfaction in pushing me to this point.

He stomps off to the back room, slams the door, and locks it.

Moments later, I hear movement—the screen on the window, maybe? His new trick is jumping out the back window like a teenager sneaking out past curfew.

I’d never known an adult to jump out of their own apartment window until I met Timmy. But here we are.

I doze off for a while, waking in the early hours of the morning.

I update Alice.

Alice:

I know you care about him, but it will not get better until he has an extremely stringent mental health routine—it would probably involve something like seeing a therapist weekly, taking medication multiple times a day, and seeing a psychiatrist.

Me:

I told him he needs a psychiatrist. And yes, he needs a structured approach to his mental health.

Timmy eventually emerges from the back room, heads straight to the bathroom, and turns on the shower.

A few minutes later, he returns to the back room, slamming the door again.

Me:

He’s emerged from the shower now. I have no idea what his deal is. 1am shower man? I’m going to make a podcast called 1AM Shower Man.

Alice:

Sounds like a background villain in the Harley Quinn show.

Timmy emerges from the back room once again, naked this time.

He glances at the TV. “You’re watching that Amish shit?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why you watch that stupid show.”

It doesn’t matter that he was enjoying watching the exact same show with me days prior. His taste in entertainment flips on a whim, as he’s proven many times.

“Can’t we just watch Pete Davidson instead?”

I sigh. “Sure.” At least he’s picking a show I also enjoy this time. I’ll take the W.

Next thing I know, he walks over to me and shoves his flaccid penis in my face, wiggling it around like one of those wobbly inflatable men typically found outside used car dealerships.

As this all goes down, I message Alice with a running commentary.

Me:

I was watching Breaking Amish, and he was complaining about it.

Now he wants to watch Pete Davidson.

He just waggled his penis in my face.

WHY?

WHAT?

WHY?

He wants me to do his resume, and I’m totally going to sneak that in:

Timmy O’Malley. Graphic designer. Handyman. Background villain.

Next thing I know, Timmy is once again in my overalls, posing proudly. “Take a picture of me!”

I shake my head and snap a picture.

“Send it to your friend!” he demands.

Me:

OMG, he really wants me to send you this picture.

I send her the picture.

Me:

Sorry to visually assault you.

Alice:

Oh wow. Yeah, he’s having an episode.

What up Bam Bam?

Timmy approaches me with an exaggerated grin.

“I was hoping when you woke up, you’d be nicer. And you are,” he says, pulling me into a hug.

“Okay?” I reply, unsure how to respond.

“I’ll clean up for you forever,” he promises, as if this is supposed to erase all his previous behavior. He pulls me into a hug. “I played with your cat while I watched The Mandalorian, by the way,” he adds, as if that’s a groundbreaking accomplishment.

Then, without warning, he bursts into song. “ We Could Be Heeeeroooooes ,” he belts out at the top of his lungs.

His mind is such a hectic place. I don’t know where he comes up with half the things he does, and I don’t think I want to.

Me:

He just said ‘I was hanging up your clothes. I can see in the dark now.’

Alice:

Exactly how much White Claw has he had?

He’s sounding like an unmedicated schizophrenic having a bouncy day.