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UGLY DUCKLING SYNDROME

I ’m unofficially moved into Matty’s apartment. I already had a ton of my stuff here, but we’d been spending most of our time at mine. Now that it’s not an option for Timmy to be there, we’re spending all our time at Matty’s.

“What about Sabre, though?” I’d asked when Timmy insisted I come and stay with him.

“Bring him,” he grins. “Matty will love the company. It’ll be the first pussy he’s had in ages.”

“Okay,” I’d said, unsure, but I didn’t really see another option if I wanted to be with Timmy.

And, now that we’re at Matty’s, we’re not leaving the house much. When we do, Matty seems eager to tag along.

It’s food stamp day, so we go on a group trip to the grocery store, and Matty and Timmy pick out a bunch of bacon, sausages, steak, hash browns, milk and eggs. I wander over to the produce department, marveling at the prices of fresh fruit and vegetables on Sunset Cay. Picking up a tiny punnet of raspberries, I let out a low whistle and put it back down when I see the price—nearly ten dollars. I used to think San Francisco prices were high, but damn.

After, we all go and see the dolphins over at a nearby hotel, and we’ve arrived right at feeding time. It’s cute, watching them open their mouths wide, eager, so their handlers can drop in handfuls of fish.

Timmy takes some really picturesque photos of them as they zoom underneath us as we stand on the bridge over their enclosure.

I love watching him when he’s being artistic. He gets so engrossed in what he’s doing, and he’s so talented at picking out the right lighting and angles, adjusting the settings in his phone to make the image come out… special, somehow. I take decent photos myself, but his blow me away.

I find creativity incredibly sexy, especially when it comes to visual and graphic design. There’s something about a man who can take something ordinary and turn it into something beautiful before my eyes. Maybe I have some kind of an ugly duckling complex—in fact, I’m more than sure I do—and so someone with that kind of power totally feeds into my kink.

The next day, I wake up with a thrill of anticipation.

Timmy has planned a hike for us to Wriggler Falls, a chance to escape the apartment and get some fresh air and sunshine, just the two of us. I’ve been craving something like this—physical exercise, being out in nature, away from the suffocating routine of sitting around binge-watching movies. I’m eager to feel the sun on my face, the thrill of a workout, and to visit a place I’ve never been. And of course, to share it with Timmy. It’s going to be perfect.

Timmy takes great care to pick out snacks he knows we’ll both enjoy. He fills his insulated backpack with an assortment of grapes and mandarins and sharp cheddar cheese, as well as crackers and even some dried fruit and nuts. He fills up the Hydro Flask with icy cold water.

We’re getting ready to head out, and I can feel lightness in the air for the first time in a while, like we’re finally doing something for just the two of us. But, as we’re about to leave, Matty pops out from his room, grinning. “Where are you going?”

I freeze for a second, glancing at Timmy, hoping he might deflect the question. But, of course, Timmy’s easygoing and inclusive nature kicks in.

“The waterfall,” says Timmy. “Margaux hasn’t been to Wriggler Falls yet.”

“Oh my gosh!” Matty’s face lights up. “Mind if I join you? I love waterfalls.”

I blink, the excitement deflating from my chest like a sad balloon a few days after a child’s birthday party. I turn to Timmy, still hoping he’ll say something, but he just looks at me with that neutral expression, waiting for my response.

I give a subtle shrug, trying to mask my disappointment. “Sure, why not? Come along. The Uber will be here in a few minutes, though, so hurry.”

Matty rushes off to his room to change, and I let out a quiet sigh. This was supposed to be our day, just Timmy and me. But now, well.. it’s the three of us. Again.

It’s not that Matty is awful, or even particularly annoying—he’s actually okay to be around when he’s not drunk, which is when he tends to say stupid things. But it’s starting to feel like Timmy and I are not getting any time to ourselves. We don’t really go anywhere, and Matty is always… there.

It’s his apartment, so I’m not complaining—it’s not like I could ask him to leave. But I can’t help but feel trapped. I’m paying insane rent for an apartment we can’t escape to for couple time, because Timmy’s no longer allowed there.

I’m resenting it. Resenting Timmy for not making more of an effort to make up for the consequences of his attack on me. I’m resentful that my gorgeous life is being reduced to this.

And now, when Timmy makes an effort for us to actually leave the house so we can have some alone time doing something that makes me happy, Matty is a third wheel. It makes the whole outing feel less special, defeating the purpose of just Timmy and I spending time together alone.

I shake the thought off, feeling guilty for even thinking it. It’s not that big of a deal, is it? I mean, it’s just a hike. The more the merrier. But, deep down, I know that’s not what I want. What I want is alone time with Timmy—time to connect, to talk, to just be together without anyone else. Our relationship needs that space, especially after everything we’ve been through. But instead, it feels like there’s always this extra person there that prevents us from expressing our true selves the way a couple normally would.

Hell, I’m resentful that Timmy and I can no longer walk around my apartment naked, enjoying each other and having sex whenever we want without timing it around Matty’s cigarette breaks. But I feel like a terrible person for resenting any of this. I’ve signed up for this relationship, and this is the price for now. And at least he’s not dangling his dick off the balcony over here.

When we get to the trail, the hike is beautiful. A lush path, lined with gorgeous native ferns and giant trees that seem to stretch up into the heavens. Roosters walk along near the entrance, and the sounds of other birds and loud insects can be heard all the way to the waterfall. I get frustrated, because Timmy keeps running ahead, jumping up into places I don’t feel comfortable going, so he can snap pictures, leaving me with Matty, who chats away. He makes jokes, and I try to smile, but each step feels heavier than it should. The whole time, there’s a gnawing in the pit of my stomach.

The falls themselves are stunning, water thundering down a rugged rock face into a clear pool lined with stones and larger rocks. We all jump in, frolicking under the falls and just bathing, enjoying the time in the water beneath the golden sun.

Timmy and I contemplate having sex up a side trail, and ask Matty go on ahead, but call it off at the last minute because there’s too much of a chance of someone walking past.

When we’re back in the apartment, Matty starts cracking open beers like he’s letting off fireworks on the Fourth of July .

“Oh, your girlfriend Lila from high school wouldn’t like that,” Matty says out of nowhere, smirking at Timmy.

I glance over, confused and irritated. What is he even talking about?

Timmy shrugs, not paying attention, but Matty keeps going.

“And remember when you saw that one girl and she stayed over? She was really nuts. Left several pairs of panties here. I found them in the closet.”

I feel my stomach twist. Why the hell is Matty bringing this up? It’s like he’s trying to stir the pot, to wedge himself into our relationship and make me uncomfortable. And it works. Every time he mentions some random girl from Timmy’s past, it feels like a little jab. Like he’s reminding me that I’m not the only one. And firmly establishing that Matty knows lots of things I don’t know about Timmy’s life before I entered the picture. And Timmy just seems to let it happen, brushing it off like it doesn’t matter. But it does matter to me.

This entire apartment is becoming like an eggshell for me. One wrong move, one wrong word, and everything will crack open. I’m walking on thin ice, trying to keep the peace, trying to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s really, really not. And I’m tired. Tired of having to constantly navigate this frustrating, awkward dynamic. Tired of never having a moment to myself, and never having a moment alone with Timmy.

I glance over at Timmy, hoping for some glimpse of understanding or reassurance, that maybe Matty’s pushing things too far. But Timmy’s just sitting there, smiling, totally unfazed.

And I feel trapped.

Later that evening

Timmy is drunk, and he’s acting insane.

He stands by the doorframe, waiting for Matty to re-enter the room .

His body is rigid, and as his arm moves back, his elbow bent, I see the flash of his knife blade angled and ready to strike.

Oh my god, he’s going to stab his roommate when he comes out of his bedroom.

And for what? Because he’s mildly agitated over something stupid?

Jesus.

“Timmy,” I hiss. “Timmy! What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” he growls. His posture is off, and he doesn’t turn to look at me, but I don’t have to see his face to know it’s changed.

He’s that other person, the one who attacked me in my apartment.

I stay down low, not wanting to draw his wrath.

I can’t let this happen, but at the same time, I feel relief that I’m not his target.

But I also don’t want him to kill anyone. So I remain alert, watching him.

After what seems like ages, but is probably only a minute or so, he turns around, distracted, and places the knife down on the arm of the overstuffed armchair.

He goes to the kitchen to continue cooking, as if he wasn’t just about to shank his roommate.

I quietly grab the knife and move it underneath the armchair so he can’t see it, so he can’t instantly retrieve it when he remembers what he was planning to do.

Part of me considers running away, but his behavioral shift was so sudden. I peer over at him, and his face has returned to normal. To the cute, sparkly-eyed surfer, not the reptilian demon who almost murdered someone.

I sigh with relief, exhausted, still in a fog. Trying to parse apart how someone can act so calm and loving and funny and fun could also be this completely other person. It doesn’t make sense, and my brain just won’t process it.

Days later, it’s just me and Matty in the living room.

“I’m sorry he tried to stab you the other day. That was a bit crazy,” I say. “I moved the knife when he wasn’t looking, so he couldn’t see where it was.”

Matty shrugs. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” His voice is casual, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“He tried to shank you, though? He was waiting for you to come out of the room, with the knife in his hand. He stood there for ages, waiting, but thankfully you didn’t come out.”

“Eh, no worries,” says Matty, as if I’m saying someone accidentally ate something of his from the fridge.

Everyone’s acting like it was just normal. Everyone except me. Maybe I’m too uptight. Maybe this is normal behavior. Everyone around me seems to think it is.

I’m the only one with the problem.