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THE ONLY PEOPLE YOU'RE PURSUED BY ARE THE POLICE

O vernight, I start to think about the keys. I become scared. What if he’s aggressive and angry and psycho when he gets out of jail? What if he wants to kill me? What if me giving the truck keys to Jennifer tips him over the edge?

I try to push it out of my mind, but then I receive a text.

Jennifer:

Hey Margaux. It was so nice to meet you yesterday despite the circumstances. Thank you for giving me the keys, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m actually quite scared to have them. I think he is likely to come after me if he finds out I have them, so I’d prefer to give them back to you if that’s okay.

Me:

It’s so interesting you say that because I’ve just been through the same thought process. Where can I meet you?

Jennifer:

I’ll be at the local beach club. Let me text you the address. Meet you there in like 90 minutes?

Me:

Perfect. See you then. Thank you.

I look up the address she sends, and it’s about an hour’s walk, which is really what I need in order to be able to clear my head enough to think things through. My mind is a jumble. I’ve never been through any of this with a person I’m properly in a relationship with. With no friends or family nearby. This is absolutely brutal.

So I get ready, and step out into the sunshine, and I crank my music through my headphones as loud as it will go.

The walk to the beach club feels both endless and too short—plenty of time for my mind to churn through every possible scenario. The idea of holding Timmy’s keys and handing them over to Jennifer felt like a power shift, like a declaration that I wanted no further part in this nightmare. But now that it’s come full circle, with her handing the keys back, I feel trapped in some surreal loop. What if he comes after me for the keys? The thought sends icy shivers through my veins, and I pick up my pace, hoping that walking faster might outrun the fear blooming inside me.

By the time I arrive at the beach club, the sun is high, but I feel heavy, my stomach a knot of anxiety. I spot Jennifer waving me over, and she’s sitting with another woman I don't recognize. They look relaxed, like they’re just two old friends meeting for drinks, but everything about this feels… off.

"Hey!" Jennifer greets me warmly, as if we’re lifelong friends reconnecting over coffee. "Thanks again for meeting me."

We settle at their outdoor table, the ocean breeze tousling my hair. I try to focus on the bright, cheerful atmosphere, but all I can think about is how bizarre this situation is. I’m here, chatting with Timmy’s ex and her friend, poolside, about his spiral into violence. How did my life get here ?

Jennifer wastes no time diving into stories about Timmy, and soon I feel like I’m watching someone unravel a very strange puzzle—one I didn’t know I was a piece of until now.

“He used to disappear on me for hours, sometimes days,” Jennifer says nonchalantly, swirling her drink. “Honestly, I liked it when he did. It gave me time to fuck young guys without worrying about his tantrums.”

I blink, stunned by how casually she’s admitting to cheating on Timmy. Her candor is unsettling. There’s something about it that feels... wrong. Too detached. As if she’s playing a game I don’t fully understand. I smile awkwardly, trying to mask my discomfort.

Then she drops the next bomb. “He cheated on me with that skank who keeps messaging him, the one he refers to as his ‘evil twin’.” She sneers. “She’s been circling him for years—doesn’t care if the guy’s in a relationship or not. She’ll always come back. She just can’t stay away. And they like to do drugs together. That’s part of why they’re perfect for each other.”

I feel sick. I’d finally managed to write off the girl Timmy mentioned as irrelevant, but now? Now it feels like a warning I should’ve heeded. My stomach twists, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. Was I the fool for believing him when he dismissed having any ongoing involvement with her?

“And you know what else?” Jennifer leans in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “He stole fireworks and drugs from my son, like a damn psychopath.”

I nod slowly, processing this bizarre and troubling information. I’ve known Timmy for only a few weeks, and yet so much of what she’s saying aligns—just with slightly different details. The mood swings, the fixation on specific people, the weird power plays. It feels like déjà vu in fast forward.

“He said some things to me that were super weird,” I contribute. “He kept saying that he’s always the one who is pursued.”

“Pursued?” She’s incredulous. “Who is he being pursued by?”

“I don’t know,” I blurt out. “The police?”

She and her friend howl with laughter, and I join in, because we all know it’s true. Other than his skanky friend who keeps coming around, there’s literally no chance women are pursuing Timmy with the way he behaves. He’s delusional.

Then she says something that sends a chill down my spine. “He has this routine, you know. When he screws up, he’ll bring you gifts—shells, leis, maybe cook for you. He'll give you back rubs, foot rubs. It’s like clockwork.”

It all tracks. Nearly all of it.

Foot rubs? I frown. “Wait... he gives foot rubs?”

“Yep,” she confirms. “Always has. That’s part of his little apology playbook.”

I blink, stunned. The back rubs, the cooking, the shells, the leis—it all felt so genuine when he did it for me. But now, knowing he’s used these same gestures on someone else—and likely on every girl before me—makes it feel cheap, mechanical. Like I’ve fallen for a carefully rehearsed act. It’s not personalized, it’s not special. It’s just... his method.

I feel foolish. All those moments that seemed so unique, so sweet—they weren’t about me at all. They were just the next steps in a well-practiced routine. I can’t shake the pit growing in my stomach.

Then Jennifer pulls out her phone, scrolling through texts with a sly grin. “When did you guys start seeing each other?”

“March 22nd.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Well, here’s a fun one. This is from March 23rd. It looks like you guys were at Sails down at the harbor, and it must have reminded him of when we went there together.” She hands me her phone. There, plain as day, is a text from Timmy. A picture from the tropical bar he’d told me it was his first time visiting, along with the message: ‘I miss your crazy aggressive ass.’

My breath catches in my throat. He told me it was his first time at that bar. I’d believed him—felt special because of it. And now I’m holding the evidence that he’d not only been there before, but used it as a backdrop to text his ex while we were sitting in the bar together.

“Wait… he told me he’d never been there,” I say, feeling dizzy. “He made a huge deal about it. ”

Jennifer rolls her eyes. “Timmy? Please. He’s a pathological liar. He probably doesn’t even remember going. The guy drinks like a fish, but he’s been twice with me.”

My mind spins. Why lie about something so trivial? And more importantly, why text his ex the moment we started dating?

“And he doesn’t have a driver’s license, by the way.”

I stare at her, confused. He’s been driving me all over Sunset Cay. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, he’s had it taken away. He’s had a couple of DUIs. He’s not legally meant to be driving, but he just does it, anyway.”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea.”

She nods, knowingly. “And he’s so insane… I guess he was dating a doctor a while back. Before me. And he drove her vehicle into the ocean.”

“What the actual hell?” My eyes grow wide.

She nods. “Yep.”

I do remember him saying something about a Rubicon, driving it into the sea, like he was proud. And like it was a normal thing to do. But I’d just put it down to being one of Timmy’s crazy stories.

“When we went to visit his parents, he got arrested because he got drunk and went crazy and threatened people.”

My mind is swirling.

“And my final straw was here, in Sunset Cay,” she adds. “We went over to the Juggernaut for a surfing contest. And he got obliterated drunk, like usual… made a huge scene. It was then that I knew I couldn’t handle his bullshit anymore. He’s so embarrassing. He’s such a mess.”

I exhale slowly. “Wow.” This is all a lot to take in. Especially given Timmy’s version of events—that this woman is his crazy, toxic ex who did nothing but drink and abuse him, slapping him around and calling him names, putting him down in front of her friends.

I don’t necessarily agree with everything she’s saying, but she seems… reasonable? And like a fairly normal person with good reason to be frustrated with his antics.

“He really needs to be in prison,” she says. “I think he’d be very popular there… a good-looking guy with long hair. I think we all know what would happen to him. I would laugh…”

I’m disturbed by her comment, and don’t know how to respond.

Her friend speaks up. “Jennifer… that’s not nice,” she says, her tone scolding. “Nobody should want that for anyone, even Timmy.”

Jennifer shrugs. “He’d deserve it.”

We all sit there in silence for a moment. Probably all visualizing Timmy locked up in a prison cell, being tag-teamed by three cellmates. I feel numb.

“Yeah… oh, and by the way...” Jennifer smirks, savoring the moment. “He has a kid.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

She shrugs. “Yep. I only found out because I got the child support notice in the mail.”

The ground feels like it’s shifting beneath me. I think back to all the conversations we had about kids. He was adamant—he had none, they all belonged to his exes. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

“He didn’t tell you, huh?” she says smugly, as if she’s relieved to know I’ve been deceived, too.

I can barely breathe. How could he hide something so huge? And worse—how am I supposed to ask him about this when he gets out? I can already picture the fight it will cause, the denials, the somehow turning it all back around onto me. My chest tightens at the thought of it.

But also, why am I thinking about talking to him about anything when he gets out? I’m so confused, my brain feels scrambled.

Jennifer leans back, as if satisfied with her revelations. “You’re not the first, you know. And you won’t be the last.”

I don’t know what to say. This entire conversation feels like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s nightmare.

“The worst part is,” she says. “There will always be another woman for him to suck in with his charm. And he’ll just keep repeating his cycle, time after time, until finally he goes to prison. Or… you know, he might just jump off some rocks and kill himself. That’s probably what he’ll do if you break up with him. ”

Her words slosh around in my brain, heavy and dark, like the foamy water that smashes against the rocks at the bottom of a sharp cliff face.

As we wrap up, Jennifer hands me the keys again, a knowing look in her eyes. “Good luck with him,” she says. “You’re going to need it. My advice is to stay far away.”

I pocket the keys, feeling the weight of them press against my leg like an anchor. What the hell am I supposed to do now?