Page 86

CHAPTER 86

TRUCK THERAPY

MARGAUX

T he truck isn’t exactly the ideal setting for therapy. But it’s the only place where I know Timmy won’t overhear my sessions.

Ever since I found out he eavesdropped on my intake session, the thought of him listening in again fills me with dread.

I sit in the driver’s seat, balancing my phone on the dashboard. A small cockroach scuttles across the rearview mirror, and I swat it away with a shiver. The damp upholstery smells faintly of mildew and old tobacco smoke, a reminder of how this truck has become both a lifeline and a prison.

The driver’s seatbelt is still mangled from when Timmy, in one of his frenzied moments, sliced it apart because he couldn’t unbuckle himself fast enough to take a piss. The middle console has developed some kind of black mold, and I avoid touching it altogether.

The truck, which had to be transferred into my name, feels like another weight tied to my ankle.

“You can love someone, but sometimes love isn’t enough,” my therapist says, her voice calm but insistent.

I roll my eyes reflexively. “What does that even mean? It’s such a cliché, isn’t it? Isn’t love supposed to conquer all?”

“Well,” she explains, “you can care deeply for someone, and believe you’re in love with them. But if they’re not respecting your boundaries, if they’re physically hurting you… maybe you need more than that.”

I sigh, leaning back into the foam-carved seat. I know she’s right— intellectually , I know. But in practice? In my heart?

“I just… I love this man,” I murmur, the words barely audible.

Her silence invites me to continue.

“He makes me feel wanted and needed and adored—sometimes. Not as much as he did at the start, but when those bright spots show up, I feel so good for a little while.”

I’m honest with her about how I struggle with the physical violence aspect—who wouldn’t—but how he’s managed to play it all off as accidental, how he hasn’t hit me in a while. Threatened—sure—but not followed through. Lately, his cruelty has taken more of a verbal turn.

I know what he’s doing is wrong, but when the sweet moments come, it’s almost like I can forget the bad ones ever happened.

“I know that if a friend came to me with my story, I’d tell them to run,” I admit. “That they deserve better. That it’s not their job to fix someone.”

“So what’s stopping you from telling yourself that?” she asks, her voice as steady as ever.

“There’s nuance,” I argue. “I mean, I am seeing progress. He backslides sometimes, but he’s human, not a robot. He tells me over and over that he needs me to help him be better.”

“And you believe that?”

I hesitate, and then I nod. “I think I do. He’s shown some improvement. He’s on new medication, he’s in therapy… and he says he loves me. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only thing holding him together.”

“Do you think that’s fair to you?”

I don’t answer. Because it’s not, and we both know it.

She leans forward slightly, even though we’re separated by a screen. “I appreciate your honesty, and I understand why you’re with him. You love him, you’re empathetic, and… very patient. You want to believe the best in people. That’s a good thing, Margaux. But you have to be honest about what this relationship is doing to you.”

I nod, though I don’t fully agree.

“This is just really hard. I want things to be fine. I want him to be the person who he says he is. I can see that he’s trying. It’s just like… the sweet moments are such a contrast with his bad behavior, that it almost makes me disbelieve the bad parts even happened. Because how could someone who really wants to hurt you make you laugh until you cry with joy nearly every single day? Make you feel so loved?” Not expecting an answer, I change the subject. “He thinks you’re talking to his therapist about him,” I share. “I reassured him that you’re not, and that it would be unprofessional.”

She bursts into laughter—a genuine, surprised laugh that lightens the mood.

“Let me tell you something,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “Therapists do discuss anonymized client situations with colleagues for educational purposes, but I would give anything to not have to talk about Timmy with you anymore.”

I laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she says. “You have so much trauma to unpack, Margaux. Timmy is just an acute symptom. He’s this roadblock standing in the way of us dealing with your life. The things that brought you here before him.”

It’s such a jarring truth that I don’t know how to respond.

“You are a badass,” she says suddenly, catching me off guard.

I blink. “What?”

“It’s true, and I want you to remember that. We need to work on your self-esteem, but look at you. You moved here all by yourself. You’ve built a career as a romance author. You’ve created opportunities for yourself out of nothing. Don’t let anyone— including yourself—forget who you are, no matter what anyone else says.”

Her words hit me harder than I expect, and I hold back tears. It’s been so long since anyone but Timmy has complimented me, and these days his compliments are always laced with criticism, like candy coated in poison.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight.

“Just be safe,” she says, her tone soft but firm. “Get out of there if you need to. I’ll be here whenever you need me.”

I end the call, sitting in silence for a few moments. The truck still smells damp, and the roach is back, scuttling across the dashboard.

Her words echo in my mind.

You are a badass.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe it—just a little.