I consider his words. He says them earnestly, but he’s only a handful of sleeping pills away from trying to kill me, no matter what he says. But he looks so genuine. He’s clearly very upset—that part isn’t an act.
“Come with me,” he says softly, threading his fingers through mine. The warmth of his hand feels familiar, comforting—that didn’t change because of the horrific incident—and I find myself following him without protest. “We need to avoid the cops, though,” he adds. “So if you see any, let me know.”
“Avoid the cops?” I ask, but he’s weaving us through a crowd of shoppers and he doesn’t respond for a while.
“Yeah, so I’m not technically supposed to be around you because of what happened, until after the court case. So we’re just going toneed to be vigilant and make sure we’re not seen together. Because I’d get locked back up straight away if they did see us.”
I frown. This feels like just another thing to worry about that I didn’t anticipate.
The paranoia settles in, sharp and cold. What the hell am I doing? Now, I’m sneaking around Sunset Cay with a man who nearly killed me, dodging cops like some kind of fugitive.
We weave through crowds, ducking into stores whenever we spot a police officer. I find myself scanning every street corner, every storefront, hyper-aware of anyone in a uniform. The anxiety gnaws at me, and I realize I’m trapped in this strange, surreal reality where I have to be on guard constantly.
“You mean so much to me,” he says, kissing me on my forehead, still holding my hand. “I’m so lucky you’re speaking to me again. I can’t believe you are. I can’t believe I almost lost you forever, Margaux, my love. That’s my worst nightmare.”
We sitdown at an outdoor table, and he pulls his chair up next to mine so we’re sitting side by side, our thighs pressed against each other.
“There are a few things I need to clear up with you,” I say, nervous to approach him with things that might get his back up, make him feel defensive. Because he’s shown before that he can lash out when confronted with even minor issues. And even though he’s very calm right now, and seems remorseful, part of my gut doesn’t quite trust it. Still, I take a deep breath and decide to plow forward. I need to hear his side of the story.
“So I met your ex,” I tell him. “We talked for a long time.” I feel like it’s better to tell him now, to get it out of the way.
“You met… Jennifer?” he asks. I can tell he’s shocked. Good. He can be on the back foot.
“Yes, we spoke for quite a while.”
He exhales slowly.
“You told me you’d never been to that tropical bar before,” I say carefully, watching his face for a reaction. “But your ex said you had.” I don’t know quite why I’m starting with this, but it feels right.
He looks at me, confused.
“The one we went to on my second or so day here. When you took me to the beach and then we stopped by for some cocktails. You said you’d never been, but you have been.”
He frowns. “No way. I’d never been there until I went with you.”
“Well, your ex said you did…twice.”
He scoffs. “She’s such a liar. I would remember having gone to a place like that.”
He makes a fair point. It’s not some corporate nondescript bar. It’s an elaborately decorated kitschy bar that people go to for far more than their potent cocktails. But why would she lie?
“But you also texted her and told her that you miss her… ‘crazy, aggressive ass’, I believe was the term you used.”
“No I didn’t.”
My stomach knots at his immediate denial. “She showed me the text, Timmy. I saw it with my own eyes.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t even remember saying that. If I did, it was just me being nice, trying to keep things friendly. She’s a bitch, but I don’t want bad blood with anyone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Texting your ex and telling her you miss her doesn’t sound like just being nice.”
Frustration flickers across his face. “Well, I mean, I guess I may have texted her that. But if I did, it was because I try to keep things good with everyone I know. Like, just because she’s my ex doesn’t mean we can’t be cordial. I’m being the bigger person, I’m being nice. So I reached out to let her know that I was thinking of her.”
I quirk a brow at him, glancing at him sideways. “That’s really weird, Timmy. Texting your ex and telling them that you miss them? You don’t think that might give her the wrong impression?”
He smirks and shakes his head. “No, you’re not getting it. I was basically just calling her an asshole, in a fun way. She is crazy andaggressive. I don’t miss her ass, I meant she is a crazy aggressive ass. Like I was calling her an asshole. Get it now?”
My brain is spinning. But I guess he could have meant it that way. “I suppose? But that’s not the way she took it. She literally thought you meant you missed her and your relationship, and specifically, her ass.”