I pick up my phone and stare at the message thread again, my thumb hovering over the screen. I know I should block him, let him go. But I also know I won’t. Not yet.
Because part of me is still waiting. Waiting for the Timmy I fell in love with to come back. Waiting for the story to make sense. Waiting for him to tell me that everything will be okay.
Even though, deep down, I know it probably won’t.
66
LIAR, LIAR, SKANKS ON FIRE
Later that Day
His phone’s still not working properly, but I’m a determined person. I want to see what I’m getting myself into. The full picture. What actual data I can pull from that’s not based on an anecdote from Timmy or his ex.
Bring in the rice.
I tell myself this is wrong. Going through his phone isn’t a line I’ve ever had to cross with other romantic partners. But it’s not like I have other options now that he’s in jail, unreachable. I need to know what’s true, what’s fiction, and what kind of mess I really might be stepping into here.
He said in his Tinder profile that he wasn’t interested in drama, but I’m getting the sense that the opposite is true, and that he actually thrives on chaos. Maybe he’s just got a wild streak, a harmless impulsiveness—but there’s this other side I’ve seen now, dark and unpredictable. He threatened to kill me, and actually attacked me. And maybe this is the only way to know what I’m actually dealing with and how he might behave when he gets out.
After trying everything else I can think of, I finally manage to get his phone to work, the rice doing enough to make the screen turn onin brief, frustrating spurts. Because he’s given me the passcode, I’m able to get into it.
With each minute, I feel my stomach tighten. I tell myself that it’s a one-time thing, even though he’s given me permission. Usually, if I did want to check something, I’d do it in front of him, not here when he can’t see me doing it.
But once I get in, it’s like Pandora’s box, a whole new world. A sea of toxic exchanges with numerous people, the kind that feel like poison soaking through the screen.
It’s mostly angry texts between him and a few friends—accusations, insults, mean jabs. A picture pops up next—a baggie of pills, sent by a number I don’t recognize. I’m no drug expert, but these don’t look like they were issued by a pharmacy. Is he buying them? Selling them? It’s unclear. I swallow hard, feeling like I’m peeking into a world I don’t belong to.
Then there’s the girl. The one who he refers to as his evil twin. And she’s… unremarkable, aside from the haggard look to her face that gives her away. The telltale signs of late nights and heavy hard drug use.
Okay, maybe I sound bitchy and judgmental. I own it. But there’s something about her that makes me irrationally angry. She’s one of those people who would be comfortable blowing up someone’s relationship just for a flicker of attention, for some dick.
And she did have sex with him, right before I met him. And she won’t stop blowing up his fucking phone.
I think back to our earlier conversation… not verbatim, but the general gist?—
“You fucked your friend when she came to visit, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth.”
He’d sighed and scowled. “Well, yeah. Fine, I’ll tell you. We had sex. It didn’t mean anything, though.”
“So… you pretend to like me, and then your friend comes to town. You stop messaging me for days. And it’s because you’re fucking your friend?”
“We weren’t together yet,” he shrugs. “And I had no idea if you were actually going to even show up.”
“But I did show up. I asked you about it and you lied about it.”
“But it was none of your business what I did before I met you.”
“Listen, my friend said you’re not replying because you’re off fucking your female friend. And he was right. I just want to know what kind of person you are. If you can be trusted.”
“Well, she means nothing to me. We got drunk and fucked. That’s all.”
I scroll further up, seeing the toxic messages between them.
I gasp as I see one picture of her wearing his bone necklace—the one he put on me like it meant something to him, a weird ritual of his. She’s topless, her thin-lipped mouth posed in a way that doesn’t do her any favors, holding the skull and antler combo to her head in some half-drunk attempt at being cute. The thought of her wearing that necklace topless, holding that skull he’s obsessed with, feels like a slap. And for a second, I wonder,how many other women has he put that necklace on?I shiver with disgust.