Page 55

CHAPTER 55

BITCH LIPS & BUBBLE BATHS

MARGAUX

“ F uck you, talking to your friends about me,” sneers Timmy, pacing like a caged animal. His eyes dart to the TV, and without warning, he marches over. “I’m taking this away from you.”

He reaches out, but the universe decides to intervene. A sharp zap jolts him as static electricity bites his hand, and he flinches back, muttering curses under his breath. I suppress a laugh—barely. It’s the kind of karmic justice I don’t even have to orchestrate.

Then I notice the front door. Open. Again.

“Fuck! You let Sabre out again?” My voice rises, laced with panic.

Timmy smirks, leaning against the wall like he has all the time in the world. “Oops.”

Fucking asshole.

My pulse pounds as I drop to the floor, frantically scanning under the bed and in every possible hiding spot for Sabre. But then, as if on cue, the cat strolls in through the front door like a disgruntled teenager coming home past curfew.

I turn back to Timmy, my fury bubbling to the surface. “Stop letting my teenage cat out of the apartment!”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry, okay? It was a mistake.”

“It’s always a mistake, Timmy. Too little, too late. I’m sick of your shit.”

“Whatever,” he says, brushing me off. “I’m going to have a bubble bath to center myself.”

I gape at him. “What are you, some namaste motherfucker now?”

But he’s already gone, retreating to the bathroom like the sanctimonious jerk he is. The door closes, and soon the sound of running water fills the apartment. I exhale sharply, my fists clenching at my sides.

Me:

I told him I’m done.

Fuck this. I am done.

Alice:

He can’t keep losing your cat.

Me:

Sabre is over it and came back by himself.

Sabre is like ‘fuck this, loser. I don’t even want to run away.’

This is how dumb it is.

A while later, I hear the clinking of glass from the kitchen, followed by a heavy sigh. Turning around, I catch Timmy in the act of grabbing my bottle of gin.

“Fuck off, loser,” I snap. “Go live in a tent with your loser friends. You can all be losers together.”

Without missing a beat, he carries the bottle into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower turns on.

I grab my keys and slam the door on my way out, determined to reclaim some control over the chaos. Driving to the convenience store, the rain begins to pour. The truck fishtails wildly on the slick road, but I keep going, my grip tightening on the wheel.

Me:

He was having a shower, and if I wasn’t a decent human being, I’d have walked in there and punched his face in.

Alice:

Don’t give violence unless it’s in self defense. Just as a safety thing.

Me:

Oh, I don’t plan on it. I’m not a fan of doing time

Not that I ever have had to… I don’t intend on making it a thing.

I did go and replace the bottle of gin he just stole from me.

Because I’m proving a point—that I can go and buy something without PANHANDLING.

When I return, the apartment is eerily quiet. No Timmy, no sound of running water, just an unsettling emptiness.

Me:

He’s disappeared, but I’m not filing a missing person’s report.

Another friend starts messaging me simultaneously. He can tell something’s up.

I give him a brief rundown.

Friend:

Jesus.

Being nice isn’t a requisite to not hurt other people.

He’s right, too.

Wise friends, I have.

About an hour later, the front door swings open. Timmy walks in like he’s just come back from saving the world.

Without saying a word, he heads straight to the bathroom and takes another shower—this one stretching on for forty-five minutes. When he finally emerges, his expression is grim.

“You’re the one who always starts this, you know,” he says, dripping water onto the floor. “You’re such a toxic person.”

Me:

He’s saying it’s me now.

Alice:

And he always will.

I send her a gif that says Look at the gaslight .

Timmy starts calling everyone on Facebook that he went to high school with—in a desperate attempt to show he has friends, maybe? I don’t know.

But it’s very obvious that he hasn’t spoken to any of these people in years and he has several very awkward, forced conversations.

I stare at him, not quite comprehending how my time in the Cay has unfolded. If I could go back and say absolutely not to his proposal—if I’d recognized that for the red flag I now see it so very clearly was—I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Me:

I was forced to be married five days after I turned sixteen, so that was swell.

And it’s probably why I say yes to anyone who asks now.

Sorry I’m being demented. I just remembered I am very sad and angry.

THE NEXT DAY

Over the next five days, Timmy’s behavior oscillates between absurd and insufferable.

“One time these girls were flashing their boobs at me…” Timmy starts, launching into a story I’ve heard at least five times.

“Shut the fuck up, Timmy,” I interrupt, sighing heavily. “I don’t need to hear you going on and on 24/7/365. And you’ve told me that story like 55 times. It was boring and stupid the first 54 times.”

Timmy looks like I’ve physically slapped him with a wet fish. “I’m just sad because years ago, one of my grandparents died,” he says, shifting gears abruptly.

“Okay,” I reply, deadpan. “Well, my dad died. I was raped. And I’m a child of rape.”

Timmy flinches. “Wow,” he whispers.

He gets up and leaves.

“Bye-bye,” I yell out, gleeful for the impending rare moment of silence.

Me:

I fill Alice in.

Me:

This girl is snapping.

Very constructive, I know . But I don’t care anymore.

An hour later, Timmy returns.

“I have low self-esteem,” he says.

“Go away,” I reply.

He heads to the back room and shuts the door behind him. “Fuck you, bitch lips!” I hear him call out.

Me:

Bitch lips is the new insult.

Alice:

And this is your every day.

It’s miserable. And stressful.

FIVE DAYS LATER

Me:

Hey! I haven’t been ignoring you. I’ve just been trying not to burden you, and have also been following along with your derby adventures!!

Also, there have been less pickle runs, but I withheld at least two and figured you wouldn’t miss them.

Going to Pride tomorrow!! Excited to just be with people experiencing joy for being who they are!

Alice:

You’re never bothering me.

Me:

But yeah, I just wanted to check in and say I’m so proud of you! Derby looks amazing and you’re crushing it.

Alice:

Thank you! And don’t worry about the pickle runs—I know you’re dealing with a lot. I hope Pride brings you some joy. You deserve that.

Me:

It’s all I want. Just a few hours of peace and happiness surrounded by people who don’t make me feel like I’m losing my mind.

Alice:

Exactly. Take it all in, friend.