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A BIT OF A DOUCHE

T immy’s phone buzzes loudly, shattering the lazy stillness of the day. Timmy answers with a grin, launching into rapid chatter. From the way his face lights up, I know it’s Steve. I can only catch half the conversation, but whatever Steve’s saying has Timmy buzzing with excitement.

When he hangs up, Timmy beams at me, his energy already surging. “Steve’s coming to pick us up! We’re going on an adventure!”

Truth be told, I feel a flicker of excitement too. I’ve been itching to get out of the house, away from the same walls and routines. And Steve seemed decent enough—or at least helpful—when Timmy had that stint in jail. It’ll be nice to break the monotony.

When Steve pulls up, Matty decides to come along, and we all pile into Steve’s car, with me riding shotgun.

At first, everything seems fine.

We head up to a scenic lookout with sweeping views of the coastline, the kind of spot that feels like it belongs in a postcard. The ocean shimmers in the sunlight, and I snap photos, grateful for the brief peace. The guys chat aimlessly—surf spots, old friends, random gossip—while Timmy cracks open a hard seltzer.

At first, I sip mine slowly, letting the cold fizz settle on my tongue, but Timmy downs his like a man stranded in a desert. One can, two cans, three—all within minutes. His hyperactivity, always present to some degree, skyrockets in Steve’s presence. He fidgets in his seat, his words coming out in rapid bursts, his thoughts scattered like confetti. It feels like he’s performing for Steve, trying to impress him, and the manic energy is unsettling.

Something in the air shifts as Steve cracks a crude joke about an old classmate. “Remember Cindy at school? Ooooh man. Her tits were fire. Damn, I wanted to fuck her so bad. And Chelsea? Goddamn.” His voice is laced with lecherous nostalgia.

A pit forms in my stomach. This is the guy I thought was the mature, responsible friend? I thought Steve was a career guy, a horseback park ranger with a family. But here he is, talking like a horny teenager. It makes me uncomfortable, the way he talks about women like they’re objects from a buffet line. Instead of the good guy I thought he was, he’s actually turning out to be quite a douche. If I misjudged Steve this badly, what else have I misread?

We drive past a bar, and Steve leans forward, grinning. “Oh my god, remember Emily? Met her here once. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He groans in his seat, like just the memory is enough to make him swoon or potentially jizz his pants. It’s pathetic.

Then he swerves the car toward a random woman walking along the street. “Ooooh, look at her.” She’s just an ordinary person minding her business, but the way Steve gawks makes it seem like she’s some kind of goddess descended from the heavens. It’s over the top, crass, and chauvinistic.

For once, Timmy stays cool. He glances at me, noticing my discomfort. “Keep your eyes on the road, Steve,” he mutters, sounding exasperated, although his face is plastered with an amused grin. I breathe a small sigh of relief. At least Timmy isn’t feeding into Steve’s nonsense too much—yet.

We stop for pizza, and it’s the kind of pizza that makes you want to close your eyes and savor every bite. Perfect crust, bold flavors—easily one of the best I’ve ever had. But while I’m enjoying the food, I notice Timmys’ seltzer buzz has now escalated into full-on drunkenness. His movements are a bit wobbly, and he’s saying increasingly silly things.

Steve, noticing Timmy’s intoxication, tells him he can’t have any more beer, and insists that he can only take sips of mine. I’m grateful for Steve’s moment of responsibility, so I let Timmy steal a sip—but then he takes another, and another, until half my beer is gone.

Timmy leans in for a selfie, his lips crashing into mine in a sloppy kiss. He’s in one of his drunken, affectionate modes, where every kiss is supposed to feel passionate but ends up sloppy and overwhelming. It’s an odd combination—feeling cherished and grossed out at the same time.

At least he isn’t being crude like Steve. If there’s one thing I can say for Timmy, it’s that he seems to know where my line is when it comes to talking about women. He might need to dial it back in other areas, but at least he seems to understand that kind of disrespect would be a dealbreaker for me.

Or so I thought.

As we drive back, Steve brings up one of Timmy’s exes for no apparent reason. “Hey, remember Barbara? Kicked you out of the house with that eviction notice?” Steve chuckles like it’s the funniest story in the world. “And remember her super hot friend, Madison.”

Timmy’s eyes grow dreamy, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, Madison,” he murmurs, his voice thick with the same lecherous nostalgia Steve has been displaying throughout the outing.

At first, I roll my eyes and laugh it off. But he keeps going, recounting every detail with more and more enthusiasm. “She tricked me into letting the cops in,” he says with a grin. “But man, she was so fucking hot.”

My stomach tightens. “Stop, Timmy. Please.”

I’m quickly realizing that Steve has this uncanny ability to trigger Timmy’s spectrum of inappropriate emotions, in this case taking him from anger at an ex to perving about some girl.

Although, I guess I have the same ability to push his buttons, too. He’s told me so a few times now. Under the guise of “we’re connected on such a deep level that I feel what you feel and vice versa. And you really know how to upset me and use things I told you in confidence against me.” Both things I don’t believe I’ve ever done, although the opposite could be said about him.

“Oooh yeah,” grins Timmy, continuing the conversation about ‘hot Madison’.

“Stop, please,” I plead.

He laughs, ignoring me, caught up in his own story. “I would’ve let her stay in my apartment anytime,” he leers.

“Timmy,” I say, my voice sharper this time. “Please—stop.”

But he just keeps going, encouraged by Steve’s laughter. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion—every word a new collision, every laugh a reminder that they don’t care how uncomfortable I feel.

I’ve never, in my history, had to ask a partner to stop speaking so disrespectfully in front of me about another woman.

“Shut the fuck up, Timmy!” I snap, my voice rising. “Just shut the fuck up!”

The car falls silent for a beat, the tension thick enough to choke on. Steve glances at me in the rear-view mirror, and then at Timmy, a smirk playing on his lips, as if he finds my outburst amusing. Like this was all some sick game to him, and he’s enjoying the fallout.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut—Steve knew exactly what he was doing. As if he intentionally lit a powder keg to watch it go off.

He baited Timmy, knowing he’d take the bait, and now I’m the one who looks crazy. The insecure girlfriend. The jealous nag. Which only makes me feel even more crazy. Because I know that’s how the guys would all paint it. “Oh, look at Margaux being all jealous. Raising her voice. Screaming. What a crazy bitch.”

And yes, maybe I am a little jealous. But when I tell my partner to please stop saying something because it makes me feel uncomfortable, I expect them to respect that boundary and stop. Not to double down and have their friends encourage them more.

And the worst part? Timmy doesn’t seem to care.

Steve drops us off, thank god. And I think it’s over, but I’m wrong.

Back at Matty’s, I head to the bathroom, needing a moment alone. But the window is open, and I can hear Timmy and Matty’s voices outside on the porch while they have a cigarette.

“So, as I was saying,” Timmy slurs, “that girl showed up at my apartment, and she was so fucking hot?—”

He never talks like this in front of me, but an hour or two with Steve and he’s turned into some disrespectful, pervy piece of shit.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream, mid-stream. I finish up as quickly as I can and exit the room, slamming the bathroom door behind me. Fury bubbles over, and before I know it, I’m on the porch, confronting them. “You got home and kept this conversation going? How many times do I have to tell you not to be disrespectful, and to stop with your gross story?”

Timmy sneers at me, his drunken grin twisted and mean. Matty stands off to the side, silent and useless.

“Fuck you!” I scream, slamming the door to the porch, grabbing Sabre and storming out of Matty’s apartment. I need space—away from Timmy, away from his disrespect, away from the toxic dynamic that Steve created, and that Timmy is now perpetuating. We take an Uber back to my apartment.

Later, my phone buzzes with a message from Timmy.

Timmy:

Please come back, Margaux. I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what happened, but I hate it when you’re mad with me.

I sigh, the exhaustion settling deep in my bones.

Me:

Fine. But please think before you speak next time.

Timmy:

Okay. I promise.

When I return to Matty’s, Timmy greets me with wide, apologetic eyes.

“I want to talk about what happened earlier,” I say, my voice steady but tired. “You were being really disrespectful in the car. And then back at the house.”

He frowns. “No I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were making pervy comments and I asked you to stop.”

He scrunches up his face, confusion clouding his features as he tries to remember. “What did I say again?”

I remind him of the entire conversation, and to my surprise, he doesn’t argue.

“You’re right,” he says, nodding slowly. “It probably was a really pervy comment. I should’ve listened to you and stopped. I shouldn’t have said it in the first place. I agree with you. And even if I disagreed, I should have acted respectfully enough toward you to stop, and then we could have discussed it in private, after. I’m sorry.”

Relief washes over me. For once, the defensiveness isn’t there. He’s actually listening and taking accountability, coming up with a way to avoid it happening again in the future. “Well, I appreciate you acknowledging that. Thank you.”

He pulls me into his arms, his embrace warm and solid. His gaze meets mine, his eyes soft. He tips my head up and kisses me on the forehead. “I’m really sorry, Margaux. I wouldn’t like it at all if you did that to me. I won’t do it again.”

For a moment, I let myself believe him. I let myself sink into the comfort of his apology. “Thank you for your apology. I’m sorry, too.” I hug him back.

It feels like we’re making some progress on having adult conversations about difficult things. I felt heard and seen in this situation. In the big scheme of things, it’s not a big deal, anyway. I was just being a bit jealous, because he was being a bit pervy and disrespectful. We were both at fault. Everything’s going to be fine.

“I love you, Margaux,” he says, kissing me.

I kiss him back. “I love you too, Timmy.”

With that, it’s like the tension that had been building all evening evaporates into the humid night air. His words, his apology—everything sounds genuine. This is the Timmy I fell in love with. The one who can make me feel cherished, heard and safe. Maybe we’ve really turned a corner, and we’re finally figuring out how to communicate in a way that isn’t chaotic or hurtful.

But even as I kiss him, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers: How long until the next time?

We head inside Matty’s apartment, the heavy night settling around us like a blanket. Timmy stretches out on the mattress, tugging me down beside him, and I snuggle into him, hoping the closeness will stave off the doubts swirling in my mind.

But as I lay there, I replay the evening in my head—the way Steve egged Timmy on, the smirk on his face as if he was reveling in the chaos he’d caused. And Timmy, leaping right into the trap, letting himself be baited, even though he knew better.

It’s not just the pervy comments that sting. It’s the fact that I had to beg him—multiple times—to stop. The way he seemed to enjoy the discomfort it caused, doubling down instead of dialing it back. And that’s not something I can easily forget.

Still, it’s hard to stay mad at him when he looks so peaceful lying next to me now, like all the tension from earlier never happened. His lips brush against my forehead again, a soft kiss that feels both like a promise and a plea for peace.

“Everything's going to be fine,” I whisper to myself, trying to believe it. Trying to convince myself that this isn’t part of some larger pattern—one where the apologies flow easily, but the behavior never really changes.

The next morning, things are calm again. Timmy wakes up before noon for a change, and there’s no mention of the previous night’s drama. It’s like he’s reset, as if our argument dissolved into thin air the moment we made up.

I wish I could shake off things that easily. I wish I didn’t carry the weight of every hurtful word or dismissive action.

“Let’s get breakfast,” he suggests, his voice bright, as if nothing had ever been wrong .

I hesitate for a second, feeling the weight of my own emotions still lingering in my chest. But then I tell myself that it’s okay to let it go. Not every moment needs to be dissected, not every issue is a sign of impending doom.

“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “Let’s get breakfast.”

We head out to a little café by the beach, the ocean breeze cool against my skin as we walk hand in hand. Timmy’s thumb traces slow circles on the back of my hand, and I lean into him, enjoying the simple pleasure of the moment.

He orders pancakes, I get an acai bowl, and everything feels almost normal. Almost.

And yet, beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent—a tension I can’t quite name.

I know I should be happy with how things are right now. He’s here, he’s apologetic, he’s holding me like he means it. We’re eating breakfast by the ocean on a beautiful day.

But I can’t stop the thought from creeping in—how long until the next time?

Because that’s the thing with Timmy. The apologies come, the tenderness returns, but the cycle keeps spinning. It’s a ride I didn’t realize I’d signed up for, and now I’m not sure how to get off without crashing completely.

And will this be the same thing every time we hang out with Steve? I thought he was a sensible, mature guy—but the way he talks about women is juvenile and misogynistic. Even Timmy knows how to reel it in better, as long as he hasn’t had too much to drink.

For now, though, I sip my coffee, soak in the sunlight, and try to convince myself that things will be different. That love is enough. That Timmy can be the person I see glimpses of in these quiet, good moments—the person I want him to be all the time.

He leans over, kissing me on the cheek, and my heart does that frustrating thing where it skips a beat, just like it did the first time we kissed. I smile at him, and for now, I let the doubt fade into the background.