Page 87

CHAPTER 87

HIT AFTER HIT

MARGAUX

W hen I return from therapy, Timmy is in the kitchen, clattering dishes and humming to himself. The scene is deceptively domestic—almost peaceful—but I know better than to trust the surface appearance.

“How was it?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you complain about me?”

“I wouldn’t say I complained,” I reply truthfully. “I talked about what’s going on in my life, which you’re a part of.”

He frowns. It’s as if he thinks our relationship is off-limits to discuss with my therapist. Which is a ridiculous notion.

His face darkens, and I can see the familiar storm brewing behind his eyes. “You always make me sound like the bad guy,” he mutters. “That’s why I stopped going to therapy, you know. Because I listened to your session and felt like you threw me under the bus.”

The reminder of his eavesdropping hits like a slap. I feel the irritation bubbling in my chest. “Timmy, I didn’t even talk about you much. You’ve said this before, and it’s not true.” I’m resentful that I have to take my therapy calls from a stinky truck because he violated my privacy.

He doesn’t respond, instead tossing a shirt at me. It lands on my head, and I pull it off, placing it beside me on the bed. Juvenile antics, as usual.

A moment later, he drapes a blanket over Sabre. I gently remove it.

Then, he sprinkles water on me.

“Timmy,” I sigh, getting up to leave, grabbing the keys.

As I walk past, he grabs at my hand.

I yank it free, scratching myself on the truck key in my hand as I do.

He smirks, walking past me. “Eww, you stink!” he says, wrinkling his nose dramatically.

I pause, caught between shock and exhaustion.

He opens the trash can to throw something away, then shouts louder, “Ewwww, you stink! Is that your butt?”

I ignore him, focusing on my breath. But then he starts pulling perfectly good food from the fridge and freezer, throwing it into the trash—mostly things he knows I like.

He disappears for a while. When he returns, he’s holding a football.

“Found this in the truck,” he says, a note of curiosity in his voice. “Didn’t know I had a football.”

A chill runs through me at the sight of it. “That’s from the creep I let in the truck,” I say quickly. “Please throw it out.”

His expression softens for a moment, sympathy flickering across his face. “Oh my god, babe. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll take it out right now.”

Relief washes over me as he heads out the sliding door with the football in hand.

But when he returns a few minutes later, he’s still holding it.

“Timmy, no, please,” I plead.

The gleam in his eyes is dark, his smirk cruel. “I’m keeping this football,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “This is what you get for letting strange men into the truck and driving into a fence. You have to look at it.”

I retch, overwhelmed by his twisted sense of punishment. Snatching the football from him, tears streaming down my face, I run to the kitchen and grab a chef’s knife.

I stab the football—over and over again—until it’s fully deflated.

Timmy watches, his smirk widening into a grin. “Wow, you’re an absolute psychopath,” he says gleefully. “Stabbing the football like that? What a crazy fucking bitch. Are you threatening to do that to me?”

“No,” I sob, my voice shaking. “Not at all.”

I throw the football into the trash, my hands trembling, and he laughs.

He grabs the knife from the sink and goes to the fridge. Pulling out the bougie nonalcoholic drinks I’ve been using to replace liquor, he stabs each can, liquid spraying everywhere as he cackles.

I message Alice and fill her in, because this is getting out of hand.

Alice:

This is complete madness.

Timmy walks over to me, grinning. Then he inhales sharply and spits, his saliva landing on my arm.

Me:

He just spat on me.

Alice:

Nope.

Assault.

“Don’t fucking type about me,” he snarls, noticing my messages.

He picks up his phone and makes a call. “Mommy,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe how Margaux is acting right now.” He moves his face away from his phone. “I’m going to call the police on you for scratching me last night,” he says.

His rapidly escalating erratic behavior sends a shiver down my spine. I know nothing good will come of this. With shaking hands, I dial 911. Before anyone answers, I reconsider, and hang up.

Me:

He’s calling his mom and lying to her now.

Alice:

What an idiot.

He’s a total moron with no boundaries.

Me:

I called 911 but hung up. He said he’s calling them on me, but I’m just sitting here.

He’s saying I scratched him last night, but I didn’t.

Alice:

Yeah, you need to establish your own trail of truth.

He grabs a glass bottle of tequila and, in an effort to open it, presses the knife blade against the middle of it, as if slicing through glass is a normal solution.

It’s so idiotic that I let out a little laugh.

I tell Alice.

Alice:

Yes, I too try to open my bottles with a tissue.

Equally effective.

Me:

I’m so upset, but he’s so dumb it makes me laugh.

Alice:

It sucks, but sometimes that’s what you have to do.

Me:

You get it!

Alice:

Unfortunately, I do.

He sees me typing and tries to grab my laptop from me, but I pull it back.

There’s no fucking way he’s touching my laptop.

“You’re like Carrot Top’s uglier cousin,” he snarls.

It’s such a ridiculous yet hurtful thing to say that I almost laugh.

“You’re a menopausal bitch,” he says as he runs out the door, leaving it open.

Sabre makes his way outside.

“Fuck!” I cry out, with nobody to hear me. “I can’t deal with any of this.”

I’m so tired, so exhausted.

Alice is right.

This is madness.

But not the fun kind.

Hours later, Timmy returns.

“Let me make you some food,” he says, his voice gentle, his eyes contrite. “I’m sorry about what I did with the football. That wasn’t very nice. Let me make it up to you… the food will be a peace offering.”

I want to tell him I’m not hungry, that I don’t want anything from him. But I can’t handle any more chaos.

So I just nod.

When he brings me the food, I eat it silently, choking down both the meal and my emotions.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, even though every fiber of my being feels like shouting.