Page 70

CHAPTER 70

HOLLOW APOLOGIES

MARGAUX

“ I 'm really, really, really sorry, Margaux. I never should have called the cops. I was just… like really panicked. Because you said you were going to call them, and I knew they would lock me up, and I really didn’t want to go to jail.”

The moment I walk through the door, Timmy rushes to me, his words tumbling out in a frantic attempt to explain himself. His face is serious, his posture almost reverent, and before I can even set down my keys, he pulls me into a tight embrace.

Part of me wants to push him away, but I’m so drained—emotionally, physically—that I sink into his arms, craving human contact even if it’s from the very person who’s caused all this chaos.

“So you lied to them and got me put in jail?” I ask, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Make that make sense.”

His face contorts, trying to find an answer. “Well, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you down. I shouldn’t have drank. And I shouldn’t have called them. I was just scared. And I’m glad you’re back home now.”

I step back, shaking off his hands. Anger rises in me like a storm—every excuse he offers only makes it worse.

“Do you have any idea how humiliating it was?” I say, my voice trembling. “I had to stay away from my own apartment for days. I didn’t have shoes for an entire day, Timmy. I was in jail in paper clothes, barefoot, and when I came back to get my things, you were too busy smoking with your meth friends to even answer the door! I couldn’t come in and get anything at all. Do you have any clue how worried I was about Sabre? And then you took the fucking truck god knows where with god knows who.”

He looks sheepish, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I just took the truck down to the other end of the beach,” he mumbles.

“Why would you do that, Timmy?” I snap. “You don’t even have a license!”

“I know, I know,” he mutters, shrugging like a teenager caught sneaking out past curfew. “I was just… feeling helpless.”

The irony of him calling himself helpless—of painting himself as the victim in this situation—nearly makes me laugh. Instead, I clench my fists and exhale sharply. “I could see your location, and you were going back and forth across the beach to your meth friends.”

He looks like he’s just had his hand smacked for reaching into a cookie jar. He shakes his head. “No, just a couple of times.”

“Timmy, I have screenshots and you were there at least six times over those couple of days. At the beach and over at the 7-Eleven.” For once, I have enough undeniable data points to feel strong in my assertions. For once, he can’t twist the truth.

“Well yeah,” he nods, choosing his words carefully. “I was really upset, so I went over there to think about things and drink.”

I shake my head and let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“You fractured my skull , Timmy,” I say, my voice steady but laced with anger. “You gave me a traumatic brain injury . Do you even understand what that means? You could’ve killed me.”

His eyes widen, but he doesn’t respond.

“And do you remember what you told me afterward?” My voice rises. “You said they weren’t even real black eyes. As if you thought downplaying it would erase the damage.”

The more I think about how he tried to dismiss my injuries as minimal, and to justify why he almost literally broke my brain, the more heated I become.

His lip quivers, and tears spring to his eyes. “Oh my gosh, Margaux. I’m so sorry,” he whispers. He reaches out to stroke my head softly. “I don’t know how I got like that. I would never want to hurt you.”

I take a step back, my chest tightening. His tears feel more like a weapon than a release of guilt. But at the same time, he seems genuine—he has these massive feelings, and I do care about him, and it’s hard to see him in pain.

“That might not be your intent, but you’re really fucking good at hurting me, Timmy,” I snap. “This has to stop. I feel like an idiot for even being here talking to you. I’m so upset. You keep saying that you don’t want to hurt me, but your actions say otherwise,” My voice rises. “You put me in jail, Timmy. You lied to the police about me. Do you even understand how massive a betrayal that is?”

I’m mortified to be here, with a man that professes to love me but whose actions suggest he hates everything about me.

The thought of trying to explain this to anyone is so embarrassing.

I’m ashamed.

But I don’t know what else to do other than be here right now.

“Sorry,” he frowns. “I shouldn’t have been drinking. I’ll get the help we’ve discussed. I promise.”

“Will you, though?” I quirk a brow. “Will you really ? I feel like I’ve heard the same excuses before, over and over again.”

His tears fall freely now, and his voice breaks. “I need you, Margaux. Please don’t give up on me. Help me to change, to get better. We can do this… together. I can’t do it without you.”

I look at him—the tears, the words, the pleading. I know there’s a part of him that means it.

But the little voice in my head is louder now.

He’s not sorry for hurting you. He’s sorry he almost got caught.

He doesn’t care that he fractured your skull, Margaux.

He’s crying because he realizes he almost went to prison for murdering you.