Page 61

CHAPTER 61

ALLERGIC TO PEACE

MARGAUX

T he next couple of weeks are surprisingly uneventful. Or maybe my baseline for reasonable behavior has taken a nosedive.

I even manage to work out and swim, two things I find difficult to do when I’m depressed.

The fleeting peace is nice while it lasts. A mirage in a desert of chaos. But as I’ve learned with Timmy, tranquility is always temporary.

One evening, Timmy begs me to buy him alcohol and a cigarette, and after saying no many times, he finally wears me down. I don’t have the energy to fight him anymore. “I promise I’ll behave,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me wanting to smoke cigarettes or running away. I promise I won’t do those things. I know they upset you.”

Returning from the store, he immediately opens the bottle of vodka and pours himself a glass.

I don’t bother to say anything. Words feel futile.

Instead, I pour myself coffee, grab my laptop, and retreat to the bed to work. The book I’m writing is finally taking shape, and I’m determined not to let him derail me again.

A little later, we have a minor fight because he’s not pleased with how I washed a Tupperware container, but then he calms down. He pours himself another hefty glass of vodka. He’s already slurring and stumbling.

I glance at my watch. “Hey, we probably don’t need to be pouring more vodka after midnight, babe.”

“You don’t even care about me,” he accuses, his voice rising. “You just want me gone!”

“Timmy, you’re drunk,” I reply calmly. “Go take a nap. We can talk when you’re sober.”

He glares at me, his expression dark and volatile. “ You’re the problem,” he spits. “You’re always the problem.”

I don’t even flinch. I’ve heard this too many times. Instead, I walk back to the bed and flop down, my back leaning against the sex wedge that has become a makeshift headboard. I send a quick text to Alice:

Me:

The vodka is back. So is the nonsense.

Alice:

It’s like he’s allergic to peace.

Me:

Yep. And I’m allergic to his bullshit.

Alice:

What’s your plan?

Me:

I don’t know. I keep saying I’m done, but then he apologizes, and I fall for it.

Alice:

That’s because you’re a good person. But you can’t save him, Margaux.

I sigh, sinking further into the cushion behind me. She’s right. I know she’s right.

“Fuck you,” he growls. “I’ll have more if I want more.”

I take a tiny sip of my own, the second for the day, maybe the third. They’re small glasses, a couple of ounces at most, and this one has lasted me several hours.

“You’ve drunk more than half of this,” he slurs, holding up the bottle. But that’s simply not true. He’s had half the bottle by himself, easily, and he’s trying to say it was me.

By now, it’s the wee hours of the morning. He starts cooking a steak, and next thing the smoke alarm is going off. The beeping is loud. “Fuck!” He screams. “I’ve overcooked the steak!”

“Oh my god,” I hiss. “Turn the smoke alarm off and keep your voice down. It’s after midnight! Security is going to come.”

“You set the smoke alarm off earlier,” he sneers.

“That was at lunchtime. That’s not a big deal. But you can’t be setting it off now! Eat something you don’t have to cook!”

“Fuck you. I’m having a steak.” He glares at me.

Eventually we go to sleep.

I wake up at 220AM and he’s not in bed.

I sigh. Here we go again.

Me:

Where did you go?

Timmy:

To get a cigarette.

I’ll be back in 15 minutes.

Me:

Completely unacceptable.

You have the impulse control of a cockroach.

Fifteen minutes go by.

Then thirty.

Then an hour.

Me:

I’m exhausted, and you gaslight me about a plastic Tupperware not being up to your standards when I cooked breakfast and lunch for you that day, and did dishes, while trying to manage a book release, 12 TikTok accounts and a book tour.

I get frustrated when I’m trying to post and listen. But please tell me how I am so horrible. Please.

Timmy:

Calm.

Me:

You do nothing.

Timmy:

I’m gonna have one more smoke and come rub your feet.

Me:

You won’t touch my fucking feet.

Fuck you.

Never touch me again, you loser.

Sleep in the back room and make moves to get the fuck out of my life.

I want him gone. I’m so exhausted.

I wish his parents would just fly him back to Montana so I can have some peace.

Because he just won’t leave.

I message Alice and fill her in.

Me:

Things were ‘fine’ up until this incident.

I don’t have time for his nonsense. I have a book to write.

Alice:

You need to get away from him. He’ll never change.

He’ll just push your boundaries until you don’t remember where they were.

Me:

You’re probably right.

Alice:

It’s a pattern. He isn’t learning where your boundaries are. He’s learning where HE can put them.

Me:

That’s true. I made it pretty clear earlier. So we will see.

Alice:

I don’t want him to get comfortable with violence. Which he seems to be already.

Me:

Yeah, me neither. He says he’s not. I know one thing—it won’t happen again.

Alice:

Would you do something somewhat serious for me? Basically, I want to have you give me some of your personal info and his. And I will keep it until I do not hear from you, and then I will call the police and report you missing.

A chill runs down my spine.

Me:

Okay, I’m not going to go missing, though. I promise.

She sends me a screenshot:

I shiver, thinking back to the domestic violence advocate’s stats around strangulation.

Surely he would never kill me, though. Would he?

There’s no way I could be living with a murderer.

Me:

I know.

Alice:

I love you, Margaux. But I don’t trust you’re in a safe situation right now.

So I’m scared for you.

I’d love to be wrong. But, in case I’m not, I’d like to be safe.

Me:

He’s over at the tents again. In the middle of the night.

Alice:

Yeah, this is a pattern. He’s going to be like that forever.

Me:

I’m not okay with it. Clearly.

Alice:

Good.

So what will YOU do?

Me:

Well. He asked me the other day if I would move on when he was doing his jail sentence for driving without a license (his sentencing is next Monday). And I said, ‘No, but if you keep leaving at night I will move on.’

And here we are.

Alice:

He’s been doing it.

Me:

Yeah, this is the first time since we had the conversation.

He literally promised me yesterday he wouldn’t do this, and then he had vodka and decided he couldn’t sleep.

Ranted about how his ex used to ‘make him lie there in the dark’ and then ran off when I was asleep.

Alice:

Promises from people without integrity are just statements without weight.

Me:

Yep. A waste of noise.

I can only imagine he is passed out in the park or has possibly been stabbed. But I refuse to go looking for him in the dark this time. It’s dangerous around here.

If he isn’t back when it’s light, I will maybe drive down the street.

Alice:

Yeah, do not go out. It seems like a bad place.

Me:

Like I don’t need to be in a relationship with someone who puts himself or me in that position.

Alice:

Not at all.

You deserve someone who will be kind and make you feel safe.

Me:

Totally.

I’d call his dad, but I don’t see the point at this juncture.

An hour later, Timmy arrives back at the apartment, giddy with excitement.

His board shorts are wet.

“Oh my gosh, that was so much fun! I just went night diving with some people I met on the beach.”

“Fuck you, Timmy,” I snap. “Get your shit out of the apartment in the morning. I’m done with you.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave first thing.”

THE NEXT MORNING

Timmy wakes up and acts like nothing is wrong. “Can you drive me to therapy, babe?” he asks.

I sigh. Maybe therapy can fix him, but I don’t have high hopes.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m still very upset with you. Make sure you talk to your therapist about what happened last night.”

“I will,” he says.

After his therapy session, he’s very contrite.

“Did you talk to your therapist about going over to the tents?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She said that it wasn’t good or okay.”

I nod. “And?”

“My behavior is completely inappropriate and I have a bad drinking problem, and my actions were really fucked up. I’m really, really sorry, Marg. I’ll do better. I promise.”

I sigh. Words are cheap, and with Timmy I’m beginning to learn they carry very little weight.

“I’m just really freaking out about maybe having to go to jail on Monday and I acted out. I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know how long I’m going to have to go for. It’s just really messing with my head.”

I get it to a point, but there’s always some reason Timmy will use it as an excuse to act out.

“Let’s go to Costco,” he says. “It’s food stamp day. Let’s fill up the fridge with nice stuff.”

So I drive us to Costco and we get all of our favorite things, filling the cart to the brim and then returning home where Timmy expertly Tetrises the groceries into the fridge and freezer. “We did real good!” he beams.

And so I ride another temporary Timmy high.

Monday arrives, and we drive to the courthouse in silence. Timmy is jittery, fidgeting with his phone and tapping his foot incessantly. He’s terrified of going to jail, and for once, I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

As much as he’s made my life miserable, the idea of him locked up is hard to stomach.

When he emerges from the courthouse an hour later, his face is lit with relief. “No jail time!” he exclaims, practically skipping toward the truck. “Just a fine!”

I force a smile. “That’s good.” I’m happy for him, but also slightly disappointed that I won’t have any time away from him to process everything.

“It’s amazing!” he beams. “This is a sign, Margaux—a sign that things are going to get better.”

But deep down, I know better. This isn’t a sign of improvement. It’s a sign that he’ll never take accountability. That he’ll keep pushing boundaries, testing limits, and skating by without consequences.

He thinks he can get away with literally anything.

And I know, for that, I’m partially to blame.

As we drive home, Timmy chats about his plans for the future. How he’s going to ‘get his shit together,’ start making art again, and be the man I deserve.

But I’ve heard it all before.

And as I watch the Sunset Cay skyline blur past, I wonder how many more chances I’ll let him burn through before I finally stop letting him drag me down.