Page 50

48

IN THE SAME PLACE

T immy and I are hanging out at Matty’s when we have another fight, and we fight hard—words flying like daggers, sharp and relentless. He starts another argument over what feels like nothing, and his cruel words sting in a way I don’t expect. Needing air, I leave the apartment without another word and head down to the beach. I need space to think, to untangle the mess in my mind, and to breathe without feeling suffocated by him.

The sand is cool under my feet as I sit near the water, listening to the waves slap the shore. The sun is dipping low, the sky streaked in oranges and purples. The sound of the surf is usually enough to calm me, but not today. My emotions are too tangled—hope, frustration and confusion swirling together like a storm cloud.

I open my phone and pull up a playlist I’ve been building. It’s called Timmy—with a broken heart emoji tacked onto the end. I scroll through the songs, playing a few, letting the lyrics hit hard. Every word feels like it was written for me, for this exact moment. The knot in my chest tightens, my emotions too close to the surface.

My phone buzzes. It's him. Of course it’s him. I ignore the call. Moments later, a flood of texts lights up my screen. Apologies— rushed and messy—pour in, and I can almost hear the desperation in his voice through the words on the screen.

Timmy:

I’m so sorry.

Please, Margaux.

I don’t even remember what we were fighting about.

Just give me a chance to talk to you.

I exhale sharply, my resolve crumbling faster than I’d like. I shouldn’t answer him. But the void inside me—the strange, aching emptiness—grows bigger without him around. He’s become like gravity, pulling me in, bending me toward him even when my better judgment tells me to resist.

So I reply.

Me:

Okay. If you promise you’ll stop treating me this way.

Timmy:

I promise, Margaux. Please, just let me see you.

Me:

Fine.

Timmy:

Can you get me an Uber?

I roll my eyes and let out an audible groan, feeling a mix of frustration and shame as I pull up the Uber app on my phone.

Why am I doing this? He could easily walk—it’s a twenty-minute stroll, maybe thirty. But here I am, once again enabling him, throwing money at the problem to bring him back to me. It feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, for god’s sake. But that void gnaws at me, and before I know it, I’ve ordered the Uber .

I stay sitting on the sand, the waves lapping at the shore as guilt settles over me like a heavy fog.

Not long after, I see his familiar shape approaching the beach. He’s clutching a large tote bag, and the moment his feet hit the sand, he runs toward me with open arms. He scoops me up, holding me tight, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Oh my gosh, Margaux,” he whispers into my hair, his voice a mix of relief and something almost frantic. “I’ve missed you so much. I love you. I thought I’d never see you again. I was so scared.”

The intensity of his words makes my heart ache. He feels so big, his love so all-consuming, and I can’t help but get swept up in it.

Then comes the bag.

He pulls it open with a flourish, grinning wildly. It’s like a magic show—only instead of a rabbit, out comes the oddest assortment of trinkets: his tiny zebra figurine, his miniature skateboard, random shells he’s collected from the beach. Each one is presented to me like a treasure, with a backstory about how it reminded him of me.

“These shells? They’re beautiful, just like you. This one’s a speckled ginger one, see?”

“This skateboard? It’s tiny, like you. And because you like to roller-skate.”

“This zebra? It’s quirky—just like the way you laugh. And because you like to wear black-and-white stripes sometimes.”

He beams with pride as he hands me each item, his grin stretching wider with every new offering. His enthusiasm is infectious, but there’s also something unsettling about it—a manic energy that I can’t quite place. This man has literally brought me a bag of junk. Things he found on the beach, things someone else might have thrown away. But he’s offering them like they’re treasures, and he has weirdly customized each of them to me.

“Um, thank you?” I say, holding a shell in my hand, turning it over to study it. It’s chipped along one side.

“Well, it’s all I could do right now,” he says, his voice softening. “But I really wanted you to know how much I’ve been thinking of you. It’s the only way I could think of to show you how sorry I am.”

Later at my apartment

Timmy sprawls out on the bed while I sit at my desk, participating in a video call with an investigator from my old job. While I no longer work there, they reached out for my help. As I speak, rattling off names, dates, and critical moments with ease, I feel something I haven’t felt in a while—confidence. It’s like stepping back into a version of myself that I thought had faded away. I know my stuff. I’ve lived and breathed this work for years, and it feels good to own it.

When the call ends, I close my laptop and lean back with a sigh of relief.

Timmy’s eyes are wide with awe, and I can see a bulge in his pants.

“Oh my fucking god,” he says, voice thick with admiration. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re so capable and confident. Talk about a giant boner. That’s what you’ve given me, just listening to you know your shit.”

I laugh, feeling a warmth bloom in my chest. It’s flattering—especially coming from him. I hadn’t realized how starved I was for recognition. For someone to see me, to really see me, and appreciate me for all the hard work I’ve done—especially given I wasn’t receiving the same kudos at work.

It’s nice to have someone compliment me for my work. And he’s right. Twenty years of really hard work has got me to the point where I indeed know what I’m talking about. It’s a shame the company I worked for didn’t think the same. Well, actually, most of them did—I did my job reliably with rave reviews by my client groups. But the bitch in charge of my division hated me for some inexplicable reason. It wasn’t my fault she was a frumpy, jealous cunt. Seriously, the way she’s photoshopped her LinkedIn profile is a tragedy. No Marsha, we see you.

I often find that people who define themselves as strategic automatically are dismissive of me. They’re often narrow-minded glorified admin personnel who weasel their way into the C-suite, all the while I’m actually carrying out multi-year plans. But go off, Marsha.

I’m salty. I don’t apologize.

And Timmy sees my skills. He’s probably never heard anything like this before. He dated a doctor once. Or maybe she was a dentist. But anyhow, he obviously couldn’t watch her work, and he likely hasn’t been exposed to what real career professionals do on a day-to-day basis. And it turns him on. And the fact it turns him on turns me on. I’m finally feeling recognized as a badass bitch. And I love that he sees that in me.

Sure, my ex would compliment my grace in the most difficult meetings that he couldn’t help but overhear, acknowledge my competence in passing. But nothing like this. Nothing so… electric. This intense appreciation is new. And it’s flattering.

And the fact that Timmy finds it such a literal turn-on? That’s also new. And intoxicating.

“Seriously,” he grins, coming over to kiss me deeply. “You’re amazing. I loved hearing you talk like that.”

The words fill me up, bolstering me in ways I didn’t know I needed.

But even as I bask in his praise, a part of me knows I’m standing on a dangerous edge. Timmy’s love feels so big, so all-consuming, that it’s hard to separate myself from it. His compliments are addicting, pulling me deeper into his orbit.

It’s like being caught in a vortex—one moment spinning with joy, the next disoriented and unsure of which way is up. Time bends around him. My judgment slows, and I find myself making choices I wouldn’t have made before him. Like ordering him an Uber when he could have walked. Like laughing off bruises left by playful jabs. Like ignoring the red flags that keep unfurling around me.

He sees me in a way no one else ever has. He makes me feel beautiful, cherished, adored and understood. But at what cost?

Even as I relish the way he admires me, a voice in the back of my mind whispers: Be careful. You’re giving away too much of yourself. He’s holding you too tight .

And yet, I don’t pull away.

Because right now, the pull of him is too strong.

And I can’t seem to find my way out.