Page 94

92

MOVING THE PROBLEM, SHIFTING THE BLAME

“ L isten, I have an idea,” says Timmy. He pitches it perfectly, his voice smooth and reassuring, like he’s thought everything through just for me. “I know that me being around bad influences bothers you,” he says, squeezing my hand. “And I get it. I want to do better—for you, for us. So, I’ve been thinking…. we could move to the other side of the Cay. It’s quieter, cheaper over that way. We could probably even swing a beachfront place. And the surf is amazing… it’ll be a great place to teach you.” His face softens as he leans in closer. “We could work on our stuff—your books, my art, really focus on our relationship without all the other distractions. Just us.”

The idea of moving to the other side of Sunset Cay feels like a lifeline. It sounds perfect. Almost too perfect. But I push that nagging thought aside. What writer doesn’t dream of a peaceful, visually inspiring place to focus on their craft, far from the noise and distractions? This could be the reset I need—the reset we need. And I sure as fuck know we need to get out of Matty’s apartment.

We spend the next few hours scrolling through listings together. He’s right—rentals on the other side of the Cay are not only affordable, but beautiful. Beachfront units with views of the ocean, the kind of place I’ve always wanted to live. And it’s flattering that Timmy is so eager to start fresh with me, uprooting his life and leaving behind whatever bad influences still tug at him from this side of the Cay. It feels like a new chapter—a chance to escape the noise and chaos. A chance to embrace creativity, time together as a couple. Even a bit of romantic solitude. Teamwork.

But a small voice whispers in the back of my mind: What if it’s super lonely out there? Far from everyone and everything you know? What if Timmy acts out? I push the thought down. This is an opportunity, and I want to believe that Timmy is sincere about making things work between us.

We catch the bus the next morning, excited to see a few of the more promising apartments in person. The ride is long, winding through lush greenery and cliffs that drop into sparkling, turquoise water. We hold hands on the trip, sharing headphones and playing songs for each other. By the time we arrive, the salty breeze feels like a promise. I can already picture us here, far away from the stress, distractions, and judgmental neighbors. And, of course, Matty.

The first apartment we see is in a charming little condo building with a nearly private, pristine beach out back. It’s an older building, but the upgrades give it character—a blend of rustic charm and modern touches.

Timmy lights up as we walk through it, bringing the space to life with his ideas. “We’d put the bed here,” he says, pointing toward the large window that faces the ocean. “And we could even sleep out on the balcony some nights, under the stars.”

I can already see it—us lying under the night sky, listening to the waves crash, Sabre curled up beside us. It feels like magic.

Then we tour a larger apartment community right on the beach. The place is practically a mini-resort, with a giant pool, a fitness center, and even a little convenience store tucked near the lobby. Timmy holds my hand tightly as we walk through the grounds, both of us buzzing with excitement. The apartment itself is quite run down, and the leasing agent explains that it’s in foreclosure and the bank may seize it at any time. So while we like the complex, the particular unit doesn’t seem like a great fit.

We apply for the first place we saw. I’m already picturing us living there, imagining morning swims and quiet nights under the stars. But the call comes later that afternoon.

“I’m sorry,” the leasing agent says. “We just rented it to someone who came to see it a few days ago.”

My heart sinks, disappointment heavy in my chest. “Okay,” I say, trying not to let it show. “Thanks for letting us know.”

Timmy pulls me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll find something better. I promise.” His optimism is contagious, and I allow myself to believe him, even though there’s a knot of unease forming deep in my gut.

The next day, we look at another set of apartments in the larger complex. One is on the upper floor, but the moment we step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the clutter—it’s furnished, but in a way that makes me think the landlord has just packed it to the brim with all their spare furniture that they don’t want, random knick-knacks strewn across every surface. And the bathtub is filled with at least half a dozen very large—thankfully dead—cockroaches.

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not too sure how Sabre will fare with this upstairs balcony,” I say, gesturing toward the railing and the decent-sized drop to the ground floor below. “I can see him zooming out there when he’s being silly, thinking he could fly.”

Timmy laughs. “Totally. Let’s go check out the one downstairs.”

The moment we walk into the lower unit, it feels different. This one is much nicer. It’s been newly renovated—modern fixtures, fresh paint, and sleek granite tiles throughout the floor plan. The landlord has even added little touches like built-in shower nooks, and a stylish, deep square sink. But it’s the view that steals my heart.

Just beyond the sliding door is a patch of grass, a tall chain-link fence, and then the ocean stretching out as far as the eye can see. It feels perfect.

Timmy grins, wrapping an arm around me. “Look at this view, babe. Sabre’s going to love it.”

My heart swells with excitement. “We have to get this place,” I whisper, already picturing Sabre basking in sunlight by the door, watching as the waves roll in and birds frolic in the grass.

I call the landlord immediately, eager to submit our application.

But just as I’m about to fill out the form, Timmy hesitates.

“Um… I don’t think you should put my name on the lease,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.

“Why not?” For a moment, I think he’s planning to have me move out there and then say he’s not coming anymore.

He frowns. “My credit’s really bad. And if they see my criminal record, we’re screwed. It’s mostly traffic stuff, but there’s some violence stuff in there, and it looks bad.”

I’ve never had to worry about a partner not being able to be on a lease application. For as long as I can remember, whenever I’ve been in a domestic relationship we’ve both gone on the lease, no questions asked. I did have someone request a co-signer when I was married to husband number three, but that was on the basis of his credit.

I’ve never had to worry about a serious partner having four pages of criminal charges and several convictions against them. Just like I’ve never had to worry about how a serious partner would behave in public—or at least if they weren’t having their best moment, my biggest concern would be that they’d just remain sullen and aloof. This is the first time in my entire life that I’m worried about how someone might react to a perceived slight, and whether he might randomly start a fight with someone. Or with me.

My time with Timmy is proving to involve a lot of firsts, some of which are much more fun and interesting than others.

The unease that had been quietly simmering flares up again, but I push it down. I put myself as the primary tenant, and list Timmy as secondary, which means I’m the one who’ll go through the intensive screening. It’s a workaround, but I figure it will be fine. I hope so.

The following day, we get another call.

“I’m sorry,” the landlord says. “Another applicant beat you to it, and I think it’s only fair to approach it on a first-come-first-served basis.”

I feel crushed. “Okay,” I manage, although my voice cracks slightly. “Thanks anyway. And if anything changes, please keep us in mind. We love what you’ve done to the place.”

Timmy pulls me into his arms. “It’s okay, babe. We’ll find something better,” he murmurs into my hair. His words are soothing, and I lean into him, trying to believe it.

But the truth is, I’m starting to feel trapped. We can’t stay at Matty’s place much longer—my sanity is hanging by a raggedy thread—and the longer this search drags on, the more anxious I become. I can no longer rely on my income statements from my former employer, and I’m going to have to find a landlord understanding of our situation, that I’d be funding the rent through my savings until my writing career starts producing more consistent income, and until Timmy finds a new job.

“I just want to find a place soon,” I say quietly. “I’m losing my mind.”

“I know, baby,” he replies, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “But as long as we’re together, everything’s going to be fine.”

His words are like a balm, soothing the unease clawing at my insides. He’s my partner. My ride-or-die. And even though the doubts linger, I let myself believe him. Because, at this point, what else can I do?

We have to find a place. And I have to believe that this move will be exactly the fresh start we need. A chance to focus on my writing, to rebuild and augment our relationship, and to escape the chaos .

But, beneath the excitement, burrowed beneath the anxiety, a quiet dread hums, reminding me that isolation can be a dangerous thing. And I can’t quite shake the feeling that Timmy knows exactly what he’s doing.