I stareat the message for a long time. Is this meant to be reassuring? A compliment? It feels more like an odd riddle—like Steve’s trying to warn me and encourage me at the same time, without taking a side. And the ambiguity only leaves me more confused.
Later, I call him to get some clarity.
“Listen,” Steve says, his voice calm and even, “I’ve known Timmy since we were kids. I’m not going to tell you what to do—that’s your relationship—but I’ll say this: he’s a good guy at heart. I wouldn’t have stuck around this long if he wasn’t. But... he’s complicated. And I think you have every reason to walk away after what happened. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
His words feel like a life raft and an anchor all at once. The idea that someone who knows Timmy so well still sees good in him—that he’s capable of being a good guy—makes me want to cling to hope. But Steve’s neutral stance is just as unsettling. He’s not telling me to run. He’s not telling me to stay, either. Just that both options are on the table.
“And what about this skanky girl that keeps messaging him? The one he slept with right before he met me? Should I be worried about her?” I ask cautiously.
Steve exhales. “I can’t say for sure, but Timmy’s always been loyal to me. And he’s been talking about you non-stop since you two met. I think he really does care about you.”
I hang up, even more conflicted than before. Steve’s words echo in my mind, encouraging me to see the good in Timmy, but also quietly warning me about the risk. Maybe everyone deserves a second chance. After all, people make mistakes, right? Maybe this whole thing was just a one-time outburst, a horrible fluke.
But the pit in my stomach tells a different story. The memory of his face twisted in rage, the sound of things shattering, the way I had to run from my own apartment—it all lingers, refusing to be smoothed over by sweet words and good intentions.
I miss the way he made me laugh. I miss his affection, his warmth, the way he could light up a room. But can I really trust him again?
I try to distract myself with a TV show, something light and funny. But it’s not the same without him curled up beside me, making ridiculous commentary or holding me close. I close the laptop and sit in the dark, staring at the gouges in the wall. My mind drifts back to the happy moments, to the way he’d make me feel like the center ofhis world. How do you let go of someone who makes you feel like that?
I miss him. God help me, I really miss him.
And yet... I can’t shake the fear that, if I let him back into my life, the cycle will start all over again. And next time, I might not be so lucky.
71
CRAZY, AGGRESSIVE ASSHAT
Timmy reaches out. It’s technically a little less than 72 hours after he was released, but it was hard not hearing from him. I couldn’t really handle the silence. He seems calm and very apologetic, and it’s a relief to know he’s not mad at me. He begs for a second chance, and to talk to me in person about what transpired. He’s been staying at Matty’s, keeping out of trouble and not leaving the apartment.
I agree to meet him in a very public place–the bustling shopping center which is about a forty-minute walk from my apartment.
While I wait for him to arrive, my heart slams in my chest. He texts me updates as he gets closer. Every logical part of me screams that meeting him again is a bad idea, but the silence these past few days has been unbearable. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach as I scroll through my phone, trying to distract myself. I keep picturing him—his crooked grin, his bright blue eyes. The moments we shared that felt so genuine. The affection, the adventures, the way he made me laugh until my sides ached.Maybe it really was just a terrible mistake, I think, as much to comfort myself as to rationalize why I’m here.
I go into a store and in a panic, I buy a pair of shoes. Self-soothingthrough retail therapy, something like that. When I’m in the store, I hear a familiar accent. “Excuse me, but are you guys from New Zealand?” I ask.
“Yes!” say the two guys in unison. “We’re from the South Island. I’m a chef and he’s a doctor. We’re here on holiday with our wives, and they’re trying on clothes in the dressing room.”
It’s such a relief to hear this familiar accent so far from home. It helps to reduce a little bit of my anxiety, and in some ways, it feels like a sign. Or maybe I’m just looking into it too much. I pay for the shoes and walk out, ready to meet Timmy.
The moment I see him, sitting on the steps in front of the mall’s stage, I freeze. My body feels like it’s trying to decide between fight or flight, but instead, I just stand there, trembling. I feel my mouth twitching, the way it usually does when the rest of me decides if, in fact, I’m going to cry. He spots me and jumps up immediately, his face contorting with emotion.
“Oh my god, Margaux. Oh my god,” he murmurs, as he pulls me into a tight embrace.
I feel his arms wrap around me, and suddenly the weight of the past few days crashes over me. The relief, the confusion, the fear—it all swirls together as tears stream down my face. And then Timmy starts crying too, his body shaking as he holds me closer.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, tilting my chin so I meet his gaze. His eyes are a deep blue, and very bloodshot, filled with regret. I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s cried recently. “I would never intentionally hurt you. I swear to you.”
“Then why did you?” My voice is small, fragile, as if speaking the words out loud will break me all over again.
He takes a shaky breath. “I was really angry at the neighbor girl, and I could feel myself getting more and more agitated. I was trying to calm myself down, and I basically wanted to knock myself out, so I took a handful of trazodone. But instead of knocking me out… it made me go crazy. I snapped. I was trying to do the opposite, and I had no idea it was going to have that effect. I can only imagine that in my mind I thought you were her, somehow. And so I took all the rage Ihad out on her onto the woman I love more than anything. My soulmate. My fiancé. My Margaux. And I will never forgive myself. I didn’t mean for this to happen, Margaux. In my twisted mind, I must have projected all that rage onto you. The person I love the most. I’m so sorry.”
I blink, trying to absorb what he’s saying. “So you took a handful of sleeping pills behind my back to ‘calm yourself down’ but it did the opposite. You drugged yourself into a frenzy and almost killed me?”
He squeezes my hands, his expression desperate. “Margaux, I could never kill you. And if I had really wanted to hurt you, to kill you, I would have, right? We wouldn’t be standing here today. But I didn’t. I’d never do that. I just... lost control. And I was probably just trying to scare you, or you’d be dead.”
His logic makes my skin crawl, but at the same time, part of me wants to believe him. He seems so earnest, his sorrow palpable. The man standing in front of me looks like the Timmy I fell for—the one who made me laugh, who kissed me tenderly, who talked about building a life together. No sign of the monster with the dark, reptilian eyes.
“Look, it doesn’t matter, Margaux. I’m here and you’re here and we love each other. And I’m going to spend every day of the rest of my life making this up to you. I’m so, so sorry.”