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IT'S 5 O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE

A few days later

The rain has stopped by the time we pull into the beach parking lot, finding the perfect parking space right by the particular strip where Timmy wants to take me. The sky is still cloudy, and the scent of wet pavement and salt air lingers in the breeze, creating that delicious post-rain calm that feels like the earth is catching its breath.

We wander towards a convenience store on the way to the sand. Timmy grips my hand, and there’s an urgency to the way he tugs me along. “Come,” he says, like he’s on a mission. Inside, he picks up a half-pint of whiskey, and I get some water and energy drinks.

It’s early to start drinking, but I don’t want to be judgmental. I tell myself it’s harmless—just a little fun, and I don’t want to be the one who ruins the vibe. After all, it’s only a small bottle, and just the two of us, not bothering anyone.

We reach the beach and he opens the bottle with a grin. “Just don’t be obvious about it,” he says as he hands it to me. I take a sip, the amber liquid warming my throat.

Timmy takes the bottle back, and this time he drinks deeply, draining nearly a third of it in one go before sprinting into the water. I watch as he swims out into the ocean, his body cutting through the waves with ease, and he floats around for a while. There’s something magnetic about him—like he belongs out there in the water, where everything is fluid and wild.

I sit on a bench, enjoying the gentle salty breeze rippling through my hair, rustling the palm trees overhead. It feels peaceful in many ways, but there’s a strange edge to the day—like a tune slightly out of key. Something about the way he’s acting, a bit manic and erratic, makes me feel unsteady, like I’m riding a wave but I’m not quite sure where it’ll crash.

He runs back from the water, grinning like a kid who just won a race, and rinses himself off under the outdoor shower. Without missing a beat, he grabs the bottle from me again, takes a few more gulps, and looks at me with that same wild grin.

“Let’s go feed the ducks!” he announces, his energy surging. I’m not surprised he wants to feed the ducks. I mean, it seems like one of his favorite things to do. And it’s really surreal watching the birds interacting with him. But I hesitate, that strange feeling stirring again in the pit of my stomach. Feeding the ducks is innocent enough, but there’s something about the way Timmy hurls himself into everything that feels… off. Too fast. Too much.

Still, I follow him to the pond, determined to push away my unease and just enjoy the day. He’s teaching me that life should be fun, and the way he interacts with the birds is unique, like he’s somehow on their wavelength. They flutter around him once again, landing on his shoulders and arms, squawking as he feeds them hunks of bread.

This time, I join in. I’ve always been a bit fearful of birds, but it looks like so much fun. I hold out pieces of bread, just like he showed me, and they land on my arms and my head. Their claws are a little scratchy, and probably not very clean, but I can’t even describe the feeling of having several birds landing on you and pecking bread out of your hands, using you as a perch, their feathers tickling your face. I’m not scared like I thought I might be. I have sunglasses on so I’m not worried about any of them pecking out my eyes. I never thought I’d enjoy something like this, but here I am, covered in birds, laughing with reckless abandon.

Back at the apartment, the shift in Timmy’s mood catches me off guard again. It’s hot outside, as usual—sticky, oppressive heat— and yet he’s pulling on jeans. I raise an eyebrow, but he’s already admiring himself in the mirror.

“Don’t I look cute in these jeans?” he asks, striking a pose. “Mmhmm? I know they look great on me,” he brags. “They make my ass look fantastic.”

I laugh despite myself, wishing I had even half his confidence. That I didn’t judge and criticize every inch of my body. That I accepted my imperfections and even embraced them the way he seems to do.

He carries himself with such certainty, such ease. I wonder what it would feel like to look in the mirror and love everything I see, to move through the world with no reservations. To never doubt that I belonged in any setting.

Timmy makes me feel like I could maybe learn to do that—like I can stop second-guessing myself, stop being so self-critical, stop feeling like I almost have to justify my presence everywhere I go, to just be .

And I appreciate it. I lean into it. I’ve never had it like this before.

Then he adds his Superman cape to his outfit, and I laugh. This man is literally running around in nothing but jeans and a Superman cape and a hat. No shoes, no undies, no shirt. Just the essentials from his perspective, I suppose. And a grin that says he knows how absurd he looks—and he loves it.

He braids some ti leaves into a gorgeous bracelet, and ties it around my wrist with a flourish. “For my love, the love of my life,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “You are everything I’ve ever asked for and more, Margaux. I’m so lucky to have you.”

His words make my heart flutter, and I kiss him back, sinking into the moment. It’s passionate, our tongues exploring each other, and my pussy clenches hard. What a gorgeous man, treating me this way. Making me feel so special, so adored.

There’s something intoxicating about the way he treats me—like I’m the only person in the world who matters to him.

We go to the zoo, Superman cape and all.

Before we go in, we frolic. Frolic , of all things. Because that’s what life with Timmy involves. A lot of frolicking. He chases me around a giant banyan tree, and I laugh as he darts through the tangled roots, his Superman cape trailing behind him. He catches me, pulling me into a kiss, and I get butterflies. It’s like we’re in a scene from a romantic movie. Nobody has ever chased me into a tree and kissed me before, but it’s totally something that Timmy would do.

Things feel light and perfect. But at the same time, there’s still that same nagging feeling in the back of my mind. The way he throws himself into everything—whether it’s feeding birds, wearing ridiculous outfits, or sprinting through the zoo. He’s having fun, and making me laugh, but it almost seems a little… unhinged.

I tell myself that it’s just spontaneity, that I should enjoy it, but it doesn’t sit quite right. His energy feels almost too frantic, like a balloon over-inflated and ready to burst.

We grin as we snap a few selfies, leaning in to hold each other. I look at the photos, and we seem so happy—our eyes sparkling, our smiles wide. This is fun , I tell myself. This is good .

Back at the apartment building, Timmy’s antics continue. I gasp as he dives into the pool, belly first, the sound echoing off the water. I gasp as he stays under for what starts to feel like way too long, and then he pops back up, water spraying wildly around him as he emerges, a huge grin plastered on his face .

He films himself underwater. “I got a good video! Check it out!” he says, holding out his phone.

“Wait, are you sure your phone is meant to be in there?” I ask, frowning.

“Yeah! It’ll be fine!” he assures me. “iPhones are all water-resistant.”

“Oh okay,” I say. “I was today years old when I learned that.” If that really is the case, I wish I knew ages ago. I’ve bought so many waterproof phone cases over the years. But he seems to know more about this stuff than me.

After his swim, we go back upstairs where he discovers his phone did not, in fact, agree with the chlorinated water. It starts glitching, and then turns off completely. He paces back and forth, his mood swinging wildly from irritation to indifference and back within minutes. “Fuck it, I’m so angry. It’s meant to be water-resistant,” he complains.

When I ask if he’d like me to take him out for a nice dinner, he perks up immediately, like a switch has flipped. He puts on my floppy hat and a bone necklace, and we head to one of my favorite spots for pizza and martinis. His outfit is quite ridiculous at this point, and he seems to bask in the amused glances of other pedestrians as we walk there and back, as if it fuels him. I laugh, but that feeling—the one I keep pushing down—lurks beneath the surface.

The day is fun, but I just don’t quite feel like myself. I’m swept up in a wave, a riptide, of Timmy, swept along by his energy. He’s impulsive and spontaneous and fun, and I like those attributes, but he seems to be getting into some type of manic episode. His mannerisms are becoming more erratic, his stories are getting wilder. He’s wearing more and more eccentric outfits.

But it’s been a fun day, overall, and I don’t want to ruin the moment. And I certainly want to distract Timmy from being angry over his waterlogged phone. So I push the uneasy thoughts away. Just enjoy the day, I tell myself. Ride the wave.

But deep down, I know that waves like this always crash. And when they do, they leave you gasping for air.