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HOPE FEELS BETTER THAN DOUBT

T he barbecue with Rebecca and Jetson feels like a breath of fresh air, a reminder of what normal life can look like. Their beachfront home is nothing short of paradise—a sprawling balcony that stretches right over the water, where the waves crash so close that the mist occasionally drifts over the wooden railings. The air is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of grilling meat, the sweet-and-salty scent of the ocean, and the faint hum of laughter as friends chat and unwind around the fire pit.

It’s an eclectic mix of people—locals and visitors, surfers and artists, entrepreneurs and digital nomads—giving the gathering a vibrant energy. There’s a sense of community here that I haven’t felt in a while, and it feels good to be among people who seem genuinely happy.

Timmy slips seamlessly into the fold. He beams with excitement at the grill, his element, as he pulls out some venison from the freezer bag he packed. “You guys gotta try this,” he says, proudly displaying the cuts of meat from the deer he hunted over at Steve’s place on Solvana. Watching him light up, sober and engaged, fills me with a sense of relief I didn’t realize I needed. It’s a glimpse of the man I hoped he could be, the one I still believe in .

He laughs easily, making conversation with everyone, and for once, I don’t feel the familiar tightness of anxiety creeping in. He isn’t drunk, slurring words, or crossing boundaries. He’s just Timmy—playful, social, and full of stories.

Midway through the evening, he wanders off and, after about twenty minutes, comes rushing back, a grin plastered across his face. “There’s a bunker under the house!” he announces, his eyes sparkling with childlike wonder. He scrolls through his phone, showing everyone grainy photos of the bunker’s dusty interior and cobwebbed corners. His excitement is contagious, and soon people are talking about apocalypse scenarios and the usefulness of secret bunkers. It’s one of those silly, spontaneous moments that make gatherings like this so memorable.

Later, we gather around to play some cornhole, and at first, everything is lighthearted. But after I beat Timmy three times in a row, his mood shifts just slightly. It’s subtle, but I know him well enough to see it. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his smile tightens at the edges, and he starts making little jabs.

“You always cheat at everything,” he says with a playful grin, but there’s something lurking underneath the humor. “Fucking cheater.” His words feel like the beginnings of a sulk—like a kid at a birthday party, irritated that things aren’t going his way. It’s not a tantrum, but it’s close enough to make me brace myself for more.

I expect him to escalate, but—whether it’s the absence of alcohol or just a good day—he lets it go. The moment passes, and he even manages to laugh it off, throwing his arm around me like a good sport. “You’re actually really good at that. I’m so impressed by you. You’re good at literally everything you do.” He kisses me on the cheek.

For once, the day ends on a high note. No big blow-ups, no arguments, just a pleasant, peaceful day by the beach with friends.

In the days that follow, I throw myself back into my routine—walking to the beach at sunrise, writing, working out. Each morning feels like a small victory. I’m carving out moments of peace amidst the chaos, and it makes me proud that I’m sticking to my goals, especially when Timmy and Matty seem so content to laze around .

When I swing by my apartment to grab a few things, I pull an oracle card. TRUST.

I turn the word over in my mind, contemplating what it means in the context of my relationship with Timmy.

It’s been a few good days. Timmy hasn’t had a drink, and he seems calmer, more centered. I can see the effort he’s making, even in the little things. He’s been cooking more, and not just greasy breakfasts, but healthier meals with me in mind. He’s started picking flowers again, weaving them into beautiful leis like he used to do when we first got together.

It’s only been a few days, but in the grand scheme of our chaotic relationship, a few days without conflict feels monumental. Each small gesture, each sober day, feels like a step in the right direction. And while I know it’s too soon to let my guard down entirely, I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope growing inside me.

A few days later

The St. Patrick’s Day celebration with Rebecca and Jetson cements my hope a little further. It’s a cute, festive community event—food stalls, art exhibitions, live music. The kind of laid-back evening that reminds me why I moved here in the first place.

There’s alcohol everywhere, but Timmy doesn’t touch a drop. He doesn’t even seem tempted, which is a relief. Rebecca and I indulge in a few whiskey shots, giggling as the warmth spreads through our chests, but Timmy stays steady, smiling and relaxed.

He even encourages me to enjoy myself. “You deserve it,” he says, wrapping his arm around me as we sway to the music.

In this moment, I start to believe that maybe there’s real hope for us. Maybe he’s turning a corner. Maybe this time, his promises will stick.

His actions, though small, are beginning to align with his words. I remind myself that growth takes time. Maybe love is about seeing the effort, even when the progress is slow.

And for now, I see effort. I feel love. I feel hope.