Page 41

CHAPTER 41

LIME JUICE AND LIES

MARGAUX

THE NEXT DAY

T immy walks over to me, nail clippers in hand. “I’m going to clip my nails over at the beach,” he announces, as if it’s the most normal location to do personal upkeep.

To be fair, I’ve seen people do it in worse places, like a workplace lunch table—but I get the sense this is just another excuse for Timmy to leave the apartment.

“Why are you doing it at the beach?”

“Because I want to,” he sneers. “You can’t control me.” He leaves, the door swooshing closed and beeping behind him.

Me:

Well, he just ran away to the beach to clip his nails.

Alice:

That sounds like a video game excuse.

After about half an hour, Timmy returns from his beach nail-clipping excursion with a bounce in his step and something cupped in his hand.

“Here,” he says, grinning like a child who just discovered buried treasure. He extends his hand toward me, revealing a shell. “I found you this.”

I stare at the shell, unimpressed. It’s just like a million of the other shells he’s brought me previously, not the least bit unique or interesting.

“I don’t want another stupid shell from you, Timmy,” I say, shaking my head. My tone is sharper than I intended, but I’m too tired to soften it.

His grin falters for a split second before transforming into mock indignation. “Fine,” he huffs. “If you won’t take it, I’ll eat it.”

I blink at him, incredulous.

He holds the shell to his mouth, as if testing my resolve.

I grab my phone and type out a quick message to Alice.

Me:

He just brought me a shell and I wouldn’t accept it, so now he’s threatening to eat it. Eat the shell, bro. Like I care.

Alice:

Mkay, have fun.

Timmy clutches the shell dramatically and mutters something under his breath.

I’m already over it, and turn my attention back to my laptop. I have work to do, but his antics don’t stop.

“Jibber jadder!” he suddenly yells, cackling like a madman. He repeats it over and over, each time laughing harder, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said.

I glance up, wondering if he’s drunk, high, or just having another one of his manic moments.

“Timmy, stop,” I snap. “You’re being ridiculous.”

His response is to grab a tortilla from the counter. “I should slap you in the face with this,” he says, grinning wickedly.

I cross my arms. “Go right ahead. I dare you. The cops will be here in two seconds because they don’t like you, and think you’re an idiot because of your shitty behavior.”

Timmy’s grin fades, and he tosses the tortilla back onto the counter. “Fine,” he mutters, as if I’ve somehow ruined his fun.

Before I can exhale in relief, he picks up a lime and squeezes the juice into his own eye.

Me:

He’s now squeezed lime juice into his eye.

Alice:

What is he even doing? Has he seriously done any cocaine lately? Or Adderall?

Me:

He used to do cocaine a lot, but has stopped since I met him. And has no access to Adderall that I’m aware of.

Alice:

This seems very stimulant behavior.

Or mania.

I glance at Timmy, who is now blinking furiously, his eye red and watering.

She’s right—this is far from normal.

I’m thinking it’s mania. He has no money or drug connections out here, but God knows what he’s capable of when left to his own devices.

Alice:

I don’t know. I hate that you guys cohabitate.

I sigh. So do I at this point.

Timmy’s energy doesn’t wane. He grabs his sock monkey toy and starts smacking one of Sabre’s favorite soft toys with it, cackling the whole time.

Sabre looks on from his perch on the windowsill, his ears pinned back in disapproval.

“Stop!” I say, beyond frustrated. “You’re not five years old. And I will fly the friend who gave Sabre that toy over here to sort you out if you keep doing that!”

Timmy pouts, but sets the sock monkey down. “It’s Dad’s birthday today,” he says, his tone shifting to something resembling normalcy. “I’m going to call him later.”

“Good,” I reply, hoping his dad might talk some sense into him. His dad is one of the few people who can occasionally get through to him. I’m more exhausted than ever, and I could really use the assist.

I message Alice:

Me:

I made a conscious choice to start prioritizing my writing over his nonsense, and it’s been working. 5k words first thing when I wake up, no question. This started last week. I’m layering in more priorities over him. But I’m taking weekends off writing (not really from work because I’m working on this store I’m making—with him).

Alice:

I dislike you’re doing it with him, but I love your dedication!

Her words are like a warning bell in my ears. I hear where she’s coming from, and have my own doubts about approaching anything at all in partnership with Timmy, let alone a business venture.

Later in the evening, Timmy’s antics take another bizarre turn. “I have a jet ski!” he announces proudly. “I ride it everywhere.”

I lower my laptop screen and give him a look. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“I told you. I have a jet ski,” he repeats.

I’m too exhausted to argue. “Sure, Timmy. That sounds completely plausible. I’m sure if you did have a jet ski, it would have been a gift, not something you bought for yourself.”

“I got it as a bonus for painting a crane, actually ,” he says, his voice dripping with self-importance and hurt. “Fuck you! You’re so mean!” he yells, before storming out the door.

It beeps behind him as he leaves.

Me:

Alice:

Again? What for? To adjust his socks?

I laugh despite myself, and fill her in on JetskiGate.

Alice:

Okay. That could be true. Or a hallucination.

Me:

Lol, yeah. I guess he had one in the past. He said it was a bonus for painting a crane.

Alice:

That gave me more questions.

She doesn’t have to say it. I know this doesn’t get better.

But still, I’m holding out hope—for what, I’m not sure.

A couple of hours later, I realize Timmy has turned his location off on his phone. My stomach churns with unease.

Me:

He turned his location off like 15 minutes ago, I guess.

Alice:

So that’s suspicious.

Me:

Yes, very. But knowing him, he’s just being spiteful and trying to upset me. I called, but he didn’t answer.

Alice:

That’s still bad.

Me:

Yeah, it’s completely unacceptable.

Alice:

What’re you going to do?

Me:

I’m not sure. There’s not much I can do until he decides to come back.

He’ll no doubt be all apologetic, yet defensive.

Alice:

And unable to provide answers.

Me:

I’m just feeling super sad right now. But I designed a puzzle and flip flops and a fanny pack for the store, so there’s that.

I was meant to be doing TikToks for my books today for all of next week and haven’t made a single one. Again. Because of his shit behavior.

Alice:

Well, it’s understandable. You’ve got other stuff on your mind.

I close my laptop and curl up on the bed with Sabre. His soft purring is the only thing keeping me grounded.

Timmy’s chaos is like a carnival ride gone rogue, spinning faster and faster while I hold on for dear life.