And it’s all that he deserves.
“Are you muttering to yourself again?”
I’m snapped out of my reverie by my colleague, Jordan. We’re sitting next to each other in our surveillance van.
I laugh. Shit. I didn’t know I was uttering my thoughts out loud. “Did you catch any of it?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Just a couple of swear words. No specifics.”
“Haha, that’s good. I was just thinking about this human shithead.”
“Are you going to take matters into your own hands, or what?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, man. I just don’t know yet. I have some things to figure out.”
“Well, just be careful. It’s one thing when we’re working, but when it’s personal…”
“I know, I know. I could fuck up everything.”
And what I don’t say out loud is that I’m prepared to… to lose everything.
To burn the whole fucking world down if I have to.
Because Margaux is worth it.
61
ALWAYS HAVE A BACKUP (& WHISKEY)
The next day, I head to the beach, as if on autopilot. I sit on the sand, staring at the waves rolling in, trying to let the rhythm soothe me. The sound of the ocean usually calms me, but today it only underscores the chaos swirling in my head. He’s still in jail. What happens when he gets out? The thought grips me like a vise, tightening my chest.
I know it’s messed up, but part of me feels like I need a backup, someone safe to turn to in case Timmy comes out of jail wanting to hurt me again. Not to date, just literally to know someone who is a guy who lives on the Cay. I hate that I feel guilty about it, even after what he did. But I know I can’t keep sitting around waiting for Timmy to decide whether he wants to love me or destroy me.
To distract myself further, I take myself out for brunch, ordering a fancy avocado toast and sipping on a cold brew. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I pick at it, urging myself to eat. People-watching usually soothes me. But even surrounded by the clink of cutlery and the chatter of tourists, I feel isolated. My mind keeps wandering back to him—locked up, alone, and simmering in rage. What if he blames me? What if he’s even angrier when he gets out?
After brunch, I return to my apartment and pull one of my oracle cards. CHALLENGE.
The card shows an unsettling image—a person with their finger jammed into someone else’s brain. I stare at it for a moment, a chill creeping down my spine. What does that even mean? Is it a warning? It feels weirdly fitting, as if it’s foreshadowing how tangled my thoughts have become. As if it represents Timmy himself, the way he jams himself into my every waking moment, always speaking, always distracting me, never giving me a moment of calm.
Needing to burn off some of this nervous energy, and to fill the void in my mind, I head downstairs to the gym. But my workout is half-hearted. I pick up heavy weights, but they feel lifeless in my hands. I can’t focus on any one exercise, and playing a full workout video in the middle of the gym feels silly, so I wing it—squats, deadlifts, some curls. The movements feel good, but my mind refuses to quiet.
Even with music blasting in my headphones, Timmy’s shadow looms over everything. No matter how loud I crank the music, no matter how many reps I push through, I can’t drown out the thought of him. What’s he thinking about in that cell? I can picture him pacing back and forth, fists clenched, ready to blame me for everything. What happens when he gets out?
I leave the gym and decide to walk along the touristy boardwalk. I weave through crowds, watching people shop and snack, soaking in the sunshine. But it doesn’t feel right without him. Timmy loves doing things like this—people-watching, making silly comments, always the life of the moment. And now, instead of enjoying it, all I can think about is him.
I message a few friends from back home, hoping for a lifeline of advice or at least a distraction, including my favorite uncle’s best friend, who I lovingly call ‘Backup Uncle’.
Backup Uncle:
Always have a backup.
The words hit differently than they normally would, replicating my earlier thoughts.
Timmy’s behavior has reached a point where I genuinely fear what he might do when he’s released. Having a backup isn’t about a rebound—it feels like survival. So I respond to Felipe, the surfer I’d been chatting with since just before I arrived in Sunset Cay, the other guy who had offered to pick me up from the airport. I haven’t been on dating apps since meeting Timmy in person, but Felipe had encouraged me to follow him on Instagram, so I still have his contact info.
Me:
It’s been a mess here, honestly. Just trying to figure it all out.