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CRAZY, AGGRESSIVE ASSHAT

T immy reaches out. It’s technically a little less than 72 hours after he was released, but it was hard not hearing from him. I couldn’t really handle the silence. He seems calm and very apologetic, and it’s a relief to know he’s not mad at me. He begs for a second chance, and to talk to me in person about what transpired. He’s been staying at Matty’s, keeping out of trouble and not leaving the apartment.

I agree to meet him in a very public place–the bustling shopping center which is about a forty-minute walk from my apartment.

While I wait for him to arrive, my heart slams in my chest. He texts me updates as he gets closer. Every logical part of me screams that meeting him again is a bad idea, but the silence these past few days has been unbearable. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach as I scroll through my phone, trying to distract myself. I keep picturing him—his crooked grin, his bright blue eyes. The moments we shared that felt so genuine. The affection, the adventures, the way he made me laugh until my sides ached. Maybe it really was just a terrible mistake , I think, as much to comfort myself as to rationalize why I’m here.

I go into a store and in a panic, I buy a pair of shoes. Self-soothing through retail therapy, something like that. When I’m in the store, I hear a familiar accent. “Excuse me, but are you guys from New Zealand?” I ask.

“Yes!” say the two guys in unison. “We’re from the South Island. I’m a chef and he’s a doctor. We’re here on holiday with our wives, and they’re trying on clothes in the dressing room.”

It’s such a relief to hear this familiar accent so far from home. It helps to reduce a little bit of my anxiety, and in some ways, it feels like a sign. Or maybe I’m just looking into it too much. I pay for the shoes and walk out, ready to meet Timmy.

The moment I see him, sitting on the steps in front of the mall’s stage, I freeze. My body feels like it’s trying to decide between fight or flight, but instead, I just stand there, trembling. I feel my mouth twitching, the way it usually does when the rest of me decides if, in fact, I’m going to cry. He spots me and jumps up immediately, his face contorting with emotion.

“Oh my god, Margaux. Oh my god,” he murmurs, as he pulls me into a tight embrace.

I feel his arms wrap around me, and suddenly the weight of the past few days crashes over me. The relief, the confusion, the fear—it all swirls together as tears stream down my face. And then Timmy starts crying too, his body shaking as he holds me closer.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, tilting my chin so I meet his gaze. His eyes are a deep blue, and very bloodshot, filled with regret. I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s cried recently. “I would never intentionally hurt you. I swear to you.”

“Then why did you?” My voice is small, fragile, as if speaking the words out loud will break me all over again.

He takes a shaky breath. “I was really angry at the neighbor girl, and I could feel myself getting more and more agitated. I was trying to calm myself down, and I basically wanted to knock myself out, so I took a handful of trazodone. But instead of knocking me out… it made me go crazy. I snapped. I was trying to do the opposite, and I had no idea it was going to have that effect. I can only imagine that in my mind I thought you were her, somehow. And so I took all the rage I had out on her onto the woman I love more than anything. My soulmate. My fiancé. My Margaux. And I will never forgive myself. I didn’t mean for this to happen, Margaux. In my twisted mind, I must have projected all that rage onto you. The person I love the most. I’m so sorry.”

I blink, trying to absorb what he’s saying. “So you took a handful of sleeping pills behind my back to ‘calm yourself down’ but it did the opposite. You drugged yourself into a frenzy and almost killed me?”

He squeezes my hands, his expression desperate. “Margaux, I could never kill you. And if I had really wanted to hurt you, to kill you, I would have, right? We wouldn’t be standing here today. But I didn’t. I’d never do that. I just... lost control. And I was probably just trying to scare you, or you’d be dead.”

His logic makes my skin crawl, but at the same time, part of me wants to believe him. He seems so earnest, his sorrow palpable. The man standing in front of me looks like the Timmy I fell for—the one who made me laugh, who kissed me tenderly, who talked about building a life together. No sign of the monster with the dark, reptilian eyes.

“Look, it doesn’t matter, Margaux. I’m here and you’re here and we love each other. And I’m going to spend every day of the rest of my life making this up to you. I’m so, so sorry.”

I consider his words. He says them earnestly, but he’s only a handful of sleeping pills away from trying to kill me, no matter what he says. But he looks so genuine. He’s clearly very upset—that part isn’t an act.

“Come with me,” he says softly, threading his fingers through mine. The warmth of his hand feels familiar, comforting—that didn’t change because of the horrific incident—and I find myself following him without protest. “We need to avoid the cops, though,” he adds. “So if you see any, let me know.”

“Avoid the cops?” I ask, but he’s weaving us through a crowd of shoppers and he doesn’t respond for a while.

“Yeah, so I’m not technically supposed to be around you because of what happened, until after the court case. So we’re just going to need to be vigilant and make sure we’re not seen together. Because I’d get locked back up straight away if they did see us.”

I frown. This feels like just another thing to worry about that I didn’t anticipate.

The paranoia settles in, sharp and cold. What the hell am I doing? Now, I’m sneaking around Sunset Cay with a man who nearly killed me, dodging cops like some kind of fugitive.

We weave through crowds, ducking into stores whenever we spot a police officer. I find myself scanning every street corner, every storefront, hyper-aware of anyone in a uniform. The anxiety gnaws at me, and I realize I’m trapped in this strange, surreal reality where I have to be on guard constantly.

“You mean so much to me,” he says, kissing me on my forehead, still holding my hand. “I’m so lucky you’re speaking to me again. I can’t believe you are. I can’t believe I almost lost you forever, Margaux, my love. That’s my worst nightmare.”

We sit down at an outdoor table, and he pulls his chair up next to mine so we’re sitting side by side, our thighs pressed against each other.

“There are a few things I need to clear up with you,” I say, nervous to approach him with things that might get his back up, make him feel defensive. Because he’s shown before that he can lash out when confronted with even minor issues. And even though he’s very calm right now, and seems remorseful, part of my gut doesn’t quite trust it. Still, I take a deep breath and decide to plow forward. I need to hear his side of the story.

“So I met your ex,” I tell him. “We talked for a long time.” I feel like it’s better to tell him now, to get it out of the way.

“You met… Jennifer?” he asks. I can tell he’s shocked. Good. He can be on the back foot.

“Yes, we spoke for quite a while.”

He exhales slowly .

“You told me you’d never been to that tropical bar before,” I say carefully, watching his face for a reaction. “But your ex said you had.” I don’t know quite why I’m starting with this, but it feels right.

He looks at me, confused.

“The one we went to on my second or so day here. When you took me to the beach and then we stopped by for some cocktails. You said you’d never been, but you have been.”

He frowns. “No way. I’d never been there until I went with you.”

“Well, your ex said you did…twice.”

He scoffs. “She’s such a liar. I would remember having gone to a place like that.”

He makes a fair point. It’s not some corporate nondescript bar. It’s an elaborately decorated kitschy bar that people go to for far more than their potent cocktails. But why would she lie?

“But you also texted her and told her that you miss her… ‘crazy, aggressive ass’, I believe was the term you used.”

“No I didn’t.”

My stomach knots at his immediate denial. “She showed me the text, Timmy. I saw it with my own eyes.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t even remember saying that. If I did, it was just me being nice, trying to keep things friendly. She’s a bitch, but I don’t want bad blood with anyone.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Texting your ex and telling her you miss her doesn’t sound like just being nice.”

Frustration flickers across his face. “Well, I mean, I guess I may have texted her that. But if I did, it was because I try to keep things good with everyone I know. Like, just because she’s my ex doesn’t mean we can’t be cordial. I’m being the bigger person, I’m being nice. So I reached out to let her know that I was thinking of her.”

I quirk a brow at him, glancing at him sideways. “That’s really weird, Timmy. Texting your ex and telling them that you miss them? You don’t think that might give her the wrong impression?”

He smirks and shakes his head. “No, you’re not getting it. I was basically just calling her an asshole, in a fun way. She is crazy and aggressive. I don’t miss her ass, I meant she is a crazy aggressive ass. Like I was calling her an asshole. Get it now?”

My brain is spinning. But I guess he could have meant it that way. “I suppose? But that’s not the way she took it. She literally thought you meant you missed her and your relationship, and specifically, her ass.”

“No fucking way,” Timmy smirks, as if amused by my confusion. “I don’t miss her for one second. Anyway, I’m sick of talking about her,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me close and kissing me on the top of my head. “I’m with you now, and that’s all that matters.”

The mental gymnastics make my head spin, but I let it drop. Arguing with Timmy feels like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

“I talked to Steve,” I say, shifting the conversation. “He’s the reason I agreed to meet with you, actually.”

Timmy perks up. “Really? What’d he say?”

“Well, he was neutral. Like, he definitely didn’t want to betray your trust, nor did he want to convince me to stay with you or leave you. But he talked about your friendship and how long you’ve known each other for. And he seems so sensible and logical, and it helped to convince me to think about giving you a second chance, even though he certainly made no attempt to push me toward that.”

He smiles, his face softening with relief, and he leans forward to kiss the top of my head. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s so nice!” His face clouds. “I spoke about you with him, too. Back after our first visit to see him. He wondered if you’re the best person for me… you know, because we both like to drink and have a good time.”

Suddenly, I feel on the back foot, like he’s been getting evaluations of my suitability from his friends. I guess that’s normal to a certain extent, but isn’t Timmy the one way more likely to go off the rails and leave a trail of destruction in his wake?

I’m getting a little resentful of Steve, like he’s playing Switzerland to me, but giving Timmy an earful on the back end, spilling the real tea. But I suppose that’s what some good friends are for.

As we sit there, I feel a strange push and pull inside me—a war between logic and emotion, between fear and longing. I know that staying with Timmy could be dangerous. But the thought of losing him—losing the version of him I fell in love with—is just as terrifying.

“By the way, my evil twin came and got her suitcase finally.” By now, we’re wandering through stores hand in hand while he looks at surfwear, and he mentions it casually.

My stomach clenches at the mention of her.

“You hung out with her?” I’m devastated.

“No, no,” he says quickly. “She randomly called me, and I asked her to please finally come and get her suitcase. I know it was upsetting you that it was there. And so when I got back to Matty’s, she was there, picking it up. I told her that you mean more to me than anything, and that I couldn’t talk to her anymore. That we were going to have a fresh start.”

I quirk a brow. “Oh? And how did she react to that?”

“She was like ‘really? We can’t be friends anymore?’ And I told her ‘yep, exactly.’ And then she left.”

“And that’s really all that happened?” I scrutinize his face for any signs of deception, but see none. Just honesty and transparency, his blue eyes earnest and clear.

“Yes. She left right after that. A car was there to pick her up.”

I feel relieved, knowing the suitcase won’t be sitting at Matty’s like a constant reminder, something continuing to link them together. And relief that he’s set a boundary with her, letting her know that she’s no longer welcome in his life. Better late than never, I suppose.

Oblivious to my complex thoughts on this topic, and unaware that I’ve reviewed their correspondence on his phone, he launches into stories about his time in jail, laughing about how the cops know him by name. “They always recognize my hat,” he grins. “It’s like I’m a local legend.”

“‘O’Malley’s here again,’ the cops will say,” Timmy says proudly.

I frown. “They shouldn’t. Why would they?”

“Well they know my hat I used to wear. And then one time I set off fireworks and they were running around looking for me. And then there was the time they arrested me for saying ‘I’ll kill you’ in a funny voice.”

“That’s... not something to be proud of,” I say, frowning. “Timmy, you’re too old for this shit. That’s stuff like my dad used to do when he was around fourteen years old—the fireworks part, I mean. My dad didn’t run around threatening to kill people. And you shouldn’t be proud of the cops all knowing you by name. That’s not a good thing, unless you like… work with them or something. Not because you’re someone they’re having to arrest all the time.”

Timmy shrugs and laughs. “Don’t be so uptight. None of it’s a big deal.”

And just like that, I feel the pit return to my stomach. It’s like something’s not connecting in his brain, for him to be proudly bragging about being well-known to the police.

The conversation quickly changes to how he entertained all his cellmates, and how he almost made them all vomit with his noxious farts.

I feel uneasy about his apparent lack of shame or remorse for any of this, but he makes his behavior seem so… normal, so justified.

So harmless. Part of everyday life growing up in Sunset Cay, and continuing into adulthood.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe I’m just way too uptight.

I love him. God help me, I do. But I also know, deep down, that loving him might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

Every time we notice cops driving past, of which there are many, he’ll turn us in the opposite direction or pull me toward him so our faces are obscured. It takes me back to the first day he kissed me, when he said a cop was going past and pulled me to him.

What the actual fuck? I moved here for the quiet life and to enjoy the beach, and now I’m not allowed to be out and about with my fiancé on this beautiful island. It feels like we’re Bonnie and Clyde, running from the cops, hiding in the shadows, and creeping around corners. But in this case, I didn’t do anything wrong.

One time I’m in the grocery store alone, near Matty’s house, when I notice three cops enter the store. I resist the urge to run out of there because I realize it would only serve to draw their attention. Instead, I put my head down, and go on about my shopping. As I exit, I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Surely they don’t know everyone that has a restraining order by sight. Having bright red hair doesn’t help, but at least I’m wearing a cap. Note to self: maybe don’t wear the leopard-print overalls and bright pink bikini top I was wearing when he was arrested. It’s a cute outfit, but also like the most conspicuous one ever. I’ll just tone it down a bit for now, especially when we’re in this neighborhood where they know he’s staying.

I hate that Timmy attacked me, of course… hate that the night ever happened. But I’m also upset that there’s an after-effect of it all. That it’s impacting our life going forward. And that Timmy’s behavior is having consequences long beyond the event itself.