Page 58

CHAPTER 58

MY HEAD KNOWS BUT MY HEART HASN'T CAUGHT UP YET

MARGAUX

T he next morning, Timmy is still drunk. His face is flushed, his eyes bloodshot, but it’s his smirk that sets my blood boiling.

I confront him, the memory of the boiling water still fresh, the sting on my skin a constant reminder of his actions.

“You poured boiling water on me,” I say, my voice steady but laced with simmering anger. “It’s not okay.”

He rolls his eyes, as if I’ve accused him of something ridiculous. “I didn’t do that,” he scoffs. “You’re making that up.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “No, you did it. I even messaged Alice right after because I couldn’t believe it.”

He shrugs, his expression bored. “You were being a bitch,” he mutters. “You probably deserved it.”

“You weren’t even mad when you did it, Timmy,” I snap. “You thought it was hilarious. You were laughing.”

“Didn’t happen,” he says flatly, refusing to meet my gaze. He grabs his keys and storms out of the room, leaving me in stunned silence.

I have to get out of here , I think to myself. None of this is okay.

The hotel room feels suffocating. The hum of traffic outside is the only sound, but it’s deafening in its banality. I can’t stay here.

I grab the truck keys and drive home, the familiar roads blurring as my thoughts race.

My phone buzzes.

Timmy:

Where are you?

Me:

Home.

Almost immediately, my phone rings.

“You went all the way home without me?” he demands, his voice slurring, his tone hurt. “You didn’t take me with you?”

“I didn’t know where you were,” I sigh. “You ran off again, Timmy. After promising you wouldn’t.”

“Can you please come and get me?” he begs. “I’m at the beach.”

I rub my temples. “Can’t you get an Uber?”

“I don’t have any money,” he says, his voice dripping with self-pity. “I can’t believe you left me all the way out here by myself.”

“You sound drunk,” I reply, my patience wearing thin. “And there was no alcohol left in the hotel room. Where did you get it from?”

“Dad sent me money for alcohol,” he admits, as if it’s perfectly reasonable.

I blink. “He what ? Why would he do that?” It doesn’t sound accurate, and if he did, that would be mega-fucked up.

Timmy doesn’t respond.

I exhale sharply. “Fine. I’ll be there in an hour.”

When I get to the beach where we agreed to meet, Timmy is nowhere to be found, and he’s not answering phone calls or text messages.

I call his dad, who sounds annoyingly chipper. “Well, great news Margaux! I was speaking with him earlier, and he told me he’s going to go work with Parker now. Really great he’s going to be making some money and contributing. He sounds really excited about it.”

I roll my eyes and use every grain of strength to not pull my hair out. “Phil! He gets drunk when he works with Parker! Don’t you understand that?”

There’s a pause. “Oh, well no, I didn’t know that. That’s no good.”

“How did he get drunk this time, anyway?” I ask, my irritation barely contained. “He said you sent him money for alcohol.”

“Oh no,” Phil says, sounding confused. “He told me he needed money for soda.”

I’m livid, and I almost slam on the brakes. Like… what the fuck, dude?

“You… sent your almost forty-year-old son money for… soda?” My voice drips with disbelief.

“Yeah,” Phil replies. I can almost hear the shrug in his tone. “Well, I’ll give him a call and tell him to come and meet you at the truck.”

I shake my head. Blood pounds in my temples, and I hang up, seething.

I’m not sure what this guy is playing at.

And I’m also feeling quite outraged.

Because this ‘father’ is sending his grown son secret money while he knows a woman—me—is paying for the roof over his head and everything else in his life.

It feels like a double deception.

Surely, if his dad wants to contribute to his son’s life, he would send the money directly to the person paying his son’s rent, or he and his son would be transparent about this secret income.

What does his dad think—that I’m withholding soda from his son?

Make any of this make sense.

Given his son’s alcohol addiction, Phil’s not just making stupid decisions—the guy is literally playing with my life, placing his bet on a self-described man child who has demonstrated he’s very capable of killing me, especially while under the influence.

He’s enabling his son’s behavior while I’m footing the bill for everything else.

And now I’m stuck cleaning up the mess.

If his son hurts me, Phil carries a certain liability.

For the ‘man’ he created and continues to support without any sense of accountability.

I’m starting to think that maybe the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

I eventually find Timmy, stumbling around and chatting up paramedics as they try to attend to someone. A beer can dangles from his hand.

“Timmy!” I call.

He waves goodbye to the paramedics and saunters over, hopping into the truck. “Hey, baby,” he says with a grin. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“I was waiting for ages,” I reply, frustrated. “Why were you talking to the paramedics?”

“They wanted to chat with me,” he says breezily. “They were nice.”

I roll my eyes and start driving.

As we pull onto a main road, two girls in bikinis walk by.

Timmy leers at one of them, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he glances back at me in slow motion, gauging my reaction.

“Timmy, stop being disgusting,” I snap, smacking him on the arm.

But he doesn’t stop. As we pull onto the freeway, he sticks his head out the window, reaching for the radio antenna.

“Timmy, get back in the truck!” I yell.

He laughs, his upper body dangling precariously out the window.

My heart pounds as I imagine the worst. I seriously think he’s about to be decapitated by a passing vehicle.

When he bobs back inside, I see red. Panicking, I punch him in the head and yank his hair, forcing him to stay inside the vehicle. “You’re going to get yourself killed!” I shout.

He retaliates by grabbing at my arm and thigh, trying to wrestle the steering wheel from my control.

“Stop it, Timmy!” I scream. “You’re going to make us crash!”

I fumble for my phone and call Phil, while Timmy continues to grab at me.

“Hello?” Phil answers.

“He’s grabbing at me while I’m driving!” I yell. “He’s sticking his head out the window. We’re on the freeway. Please make him stop!”

“Son, stop it!” Phil says sharply. “Margaux, hand him the phone.”

“No fucking way,” I snap. “He’ll throw it out the window.”

Timmy glares at me. “Fuck you for calling my dad,” he spits. “You’re trying to drive a wedge between me and my family.”

“No,” I say, my voice trembling. “That’s not what I’m trying to do at all.”

Yet again, Timmy’s behavior has somehow become my fault.

And this whole situation is far too big for me to deal with alone.