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THERE'S A FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING BUT THIS IS NOT ONE

T he Next Day

He’s in jail. Jail . It feels surreal, like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. I’ve never had a partner in jail before. I don’t think I’ve known anyone who’s been in jail, actually. And because Timmy has been glued to my side since I arrived in Sunset Cay—my only real connection here—his absence is deafening. It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the apartment, leaving behind only a hollow silence.

The charges are domestic violence and ‘terroristic threats’, a fancy legal term for ‘he told me he was going to kill me’.

I sit on the mattress, surrounded by the wreckage of what was supposed to be my fresh start, trying to piece together how things escalated to this point. How we went from sharing laughs, dreams, and late-night movies to him wielding a hammer and smashing everything in sight, threatening to slit my throat.

The top of the toilet tank is shattered, porcelain shards scattered across the bathroom floor like jagged teeth. I step carefully over them, the absurdity of it all sinking in. Who smashes a toilet? What message was he sending, and to whom?

Out on the balcony, I find the remains of the potted plant—the one he insisted was special, sacred, even—the gift from Darren’s now-deceased mom, something he cherished. And yet, here it lies in pieces, dirt spilled across the tiles, the pot obliterated by the same hammer he held over my head, the one he promised to use to end my life.

I notice the pink-handled hammer resting on the floor, and the sight of it makes me shiver. It looks so innocent—something you’d pick up at a craft store, not intended for use as a murder weapon.

But now it’s tainted, just like everything else in this place.

It holds the weight of everything that happened last night, a symbol of what he could have done. What he almost did.

The second deer antler—the one he didn’t use as a weapon—lies on the floor, discarded. The sight of it turns my stomach, and I wrap it in a plastic trash bag with trembling hands. Carrying it down the hallway to the trash chute, I fight the urge to vomit. It feels radioactive, like it’s still buzzing with the malice he injected into it.

When I return, I glance around the wreckage and wonder how this became my life. I moved to this Cay for peace, for creativity, to write books and live quietly. Not to be threatened, attacked, and left in the ruins of a brand-new apartment.

The police took the other antler, and apparently his bone necklace, too.

“We thought it was a human spine at first,” one officer said when taking my statement, shaking his head. A human spine , just like Paulo joked about when I shared Timmy’s Tinder profile. I shiver again. What kind of person collects such things? It sounds like something ripped from a horror movie, the same kind Timmy loves.

And now he’s in jail. Charged. Arrested. Gone . But not for long, apparently. The officers were clear about that—he’ll likely be released in a few days. I try to wrap my head around what that means. What happens when he gets out? Will he come back, angrier than before? Will I have to move again? Will I need to watch my back every time I leave the building?

The cops warned me when they came back this morning to deliver some more paperwork, including a stay-away notice that prevents him from coming back here. “He’s banned from this building,” one of the officers explained. “If he comes back, even through the service elevator, we’ll know. There are cameras everywhere. He can’t come within 100 yards of the building or contact you for 72 hours after his release. Not by phone, not by email—nothing.”

I nod, clutching the papers. “Okay,” I whisper.

“And listen,” he’d added gently. “That doesn’t mean you should contact him once the 72 hours are up. I know there’s been physical injuries as well as property damage here, but it’s the emotional scars that leave the deepest wounds. Don’t let him back in. And,” he adds, “don’t be tempted to try to sneak him up in the elevators via the marketplace downstairs. There are tons of cameras here, and we’ll know.”

It’s odd, receiving therapy advice from a cop, but I know he’s right.

Yet part of me still wonders if I’m making a big deal out of this.

Maybe I overreacted. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe…

But then I remember the hammer, the antlers, the promises to kill me. I remember how his face twisted with rage, how his voice dropped into something terrifying and unrecognizable.

No. I didn’t overreact. This was real.

I sit on the mattress, staring at the little yellow card with domestic violence resources printed on it. I can’t bring myself to throw it away, but I also can’t bring myself to call any of the numbers. Instead, I leave it on the kitchen counter, in plain sight, as a reminder. Every time I glance at it, a wave of shame rolls over me. I want to shove it deep inside a drawer, pretend this never happened, but I need it there. I need to see it. To remind myself that what happened was real, and that I’m not crazy.

I still don’t know what to do next. Should I move? Should I tell someone? How do I even begin to explain this to the people back home? Hey, just wanted to let you know my fiancé tried to kill me with a deer antler and a pink-handled hammer. But I’m okay now, thanks for asking .

It feels too big, too strange, too surreal to say out loud. And so I sit with it, letting the weight of it settle into my bones.

I grab my phone, scrolling aimlessly, and then fixating on the latest text from his boss.

His boss:

He’s not going to change. He’s done this before.

The words rattle around in my brain, making everything feel heavier. He’s done this before . And I thought I was special. I thought I was the one who could fix him, who could be his safe place. But I was wrong, although to be fair, I had no idea what he was capable of.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning as it slides down my throat. I follow it with the hard seltzer, hoping the buzz will numb the tangled mess of emotions inside me. But nothing can dull the gnawing fear in my gut—the fear of what happens next.

Will he call me when he gets out? Will I answer? Will I want to?

I sit on the mattress, the wreckage of my life scattered around me, and let the silence wrap around me like a suffocating blanket. For now, I am alone. For now, I am safe. But I know the clock is ticking.

And I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.