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ALWAYS HAVE A BACKUP (& WHISKEY)

T he next day, I head to the beach, as if on autopilot. I sit on the sand, staring at the waves rolling in, trying to let the rhythm soothe me. The sound of the ocean usually calms me, but today it only underscores the chaos swirling in my head. He’s still in jail. What happens when he gets out? The thought grips me like a vise, tightening my chest.

I know it’s messed up, but part of me feels like I need a backup, someone safe to turn to in case Timmy comes out of jail wanting to hurt me again. Not to date, just literally to know someone who is a guy who lives on the Cay. I hate that I feel guilty about it, even after what he did. But I know I can’t keep sitting around waiting for Timmy to decide whether he wants to love me or destroy me.

To distract myself further, I take myself out for brunch, ordering a fancy avocado toast and sipping on a cold brew. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I pick at it, urging myself to eat. People-watching usually soothes me. But even surrounded by the clink of cutlery and the chatter of tourists, I feel isolated. My mind keeps wandering back to him—locked up, alone, and simmering in rage. What if he blames me? What if he’s even angrier when he gets out ?

After brunch, I return to my apartment and pull one of my oracle cards. CHALLENGE.

The card shows an unsettling image—a person with their finger jammed into someone else’s brain. I stare at it for a moment, a chill creeping down my spine. What does that even mean? Is it a warning? It feels weirdly fitting, as if it’s foreshadowing how tangled my thoughts have become. As if it represents Timmy himself, the way he jams himself into my every waking moment, always speaking, always distracting me, never giving me a moment of calm.

Needing to burn off some of this nervous energy, and to fill the void in my mind, I head downstairs to the gym. But my workout is half-hearted. I pick up heavy weights, but they feel lifeless in my hands. I can’t focus on any one exercise, and playing a full workout video in the middle of the gym feels silly, so I wing it—squats, deadlifts, some curls. The movements feel good, but my mind refuses to quiet.

Even with music blasting in my headphones, Timmy’s shadow looms over everything. No matter how loud I crank the music, no matter how many reps I push through, I can’t drown out the thought of him. What’s he thinking about in that cell? I can picture him pacing back and forth, fists clenched, ready to blame me for everything. What happens when he gets out?

I leave the gym and decide to walk along the touristy boardwalk. I weave through crowds, watching people shop and snack, soaking in the sunshine. But it doesn’t feel right without him. Timmy loves doing things like this—people-watching, making silly comments, always the life of the moment. And now, instead of enjoying it, all I can think about is him.

I message a few friends from back home, hoping for a lifeline of advice or at least a distraction, including my favorite uncle’s best friend, who I lovingly call ‘Backup Uncle’.

Backup Uncle:

Always have a backup .

The words hit differently than they normally would, replicating my earlier thoughts.

Timmy’s behavior has reached a point where I genuinely fear what he might do when he’s released. Having a backup isn’t about a rebound—it feels like survival. So I respond to Felipe, the surfer I’d been chatting with since just before I arrived in Sunset Cay, the other guy who had offered to pick me up from the airport. I haven’t been on dating apps since meeting Timmy in person, but Felipe had encouraged me to follow him on Instagram, so I still have his contact info.

Me:

It’s been a mess here, honestly. Just trying to figure it all out.

Felipe:

Let’s hang out. I’ll come get you. Where you at?

A shiver creeps up my spine. My trust levels are low. There’s no way I’m getting in a vehicle with someone I’ve never met.

Me:

I don’t get in cars with strangers. But I can meet you somewhere.

Felipe:

Let’s meet at the fireworks. I’ll bring whiskey.

The mention of fireworks makes me laugh bitterly. Of course. Timmy never shuts up about them. He’s obsessed with the ten-minute show that happens every Friday—an obsession that feels trivial now, compared to everything else.

I set off to meet Felipe, hoping the night will provide some relief. But on my way to the fireworks, I make a wrong turn down a dark alley, thinking it’s a shortcut. Immediately, I know I’ve messed up. Shadows shift around me, men hunched over, doing drugs. Eyes flicker in my direction, sizing me up.

Heart racing, I quicken my pace, aiming for the glimmer of the ocean at the alley’s end. My boots slap against the wet concrete, and when I get to what I think is safety, a wave crashes at the shoreline, splashing me with cold, frothy water. Shit . The tide is fully in, blocking my way out. I stifle a nervous laugh, pretending it’s funny—pretending I’m not scared out of my mind.

A group of men watches me from the shadows, their expressions unreadable. My stomach knots. Then, one of them catches my eye. He looks different, and like he’s helping them somehow, rather than participating in whatever they’re doing—calmer, not quite part of the chaos. A large cross earring dangles from his ear.

“Hi there! I’m Margaux!” I blurt out, forcing a grin and stepping toward him, desperate to break the tension.

He gives me a slow smile. “Hey, Margaux. I’m Mack.”

We shake hands, and the moment feels surreal, like I’ve wandered into a strange, dark dream. But somehow, the atmosphere shifts. The tension breaks. The others go back to what they were doing, leaving me alone. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and hurry back the way I came.

By the time I reach the beach, my heart is still pounding. But I find Felipe easily enough. He’s standing by his truck, grinning when he spots me. His short dark hair is buzzed military-style, and he has tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves. Unfortunately, he’s not the solid wall of muscle I was hoping for, who could protect me—instead, he’s about my height, around five-foot-five. Dammit. Although he is in the military, so I assume he has some form of combat training, at least.

He pulls down the tailgate of his truck, and we sit there, passing the whiskey bottle between us. He chats about his life, his job, and his culture. I listen, grateful to be out of my apartment and around someone—anyone—who isn’t Timmy. But I still feel like a fugitive, glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting him to show up, even though I know he’s locked up.

As the fireworks explode overhead, people cheer, but I feel disconnected from the joy around me. I take another swig of whiskey, hoping it will numb the edges of my fear.

Then, without warning, Felipe leans in and kisses me .

It’s awkward. Terrible. His lips are too wet, and his timing is off. I sure don’t want to be kissing anyone right now, and in a weird way, I feel guilty that this is even happening. That I somehow owe faithfulness to Timmy, even though he literally tried to kill me. I pull away slightly, but he leans in again, pressing another awful kiss against my mouth.

I freeze, unsure how to handle it without making a scene.

“Want to hang out in my truck for a bit?” he asks, his voice low.

“Um, no!” I say, panic bubbling up. “I have to go!”

“You have to go?”

“Yep! Thanks for the whiskey, though! Bye!”

Without waiting for a response, I hop down from the tailgate and take off in the opposite direction, my heart hammering in my chest.

When I finally get home, I crank up the air conditioning and collapse onto the mattress. I can’t sit still. I need to move.

I pull up some shuffling videos online—the ones Timmy kept talking about, the ones that he used when he was learning to dance—and try to mimic the moves. It reminds me of the old dance routines I used to do in jazz ballet. Running man, box steps—familiar steps, but reimagined in this new style.

I dance for hours, the music blasting through my headphones, my body moving in rhythm with the beat. I can’t stop. For these moments, I can forget everything—Timmy, the jail, the fear. I get lost in the movement, laughing when I trip over my own feet, letting the music carry me somewhere far away from all the chaos.

For a little while, I feel free. But only for a little while.