“No fucking way,” Timmy smirks, as if amused by my confusion. “I don’t miss her for one second. Anyway, I’m sick of talking about her,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me close and kissing me on the top of my head. “I’m withyounow, and that’s all that matters.”
The mental gymnastics make my head spin, but I let it drop. Arguing with Timmy feels like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.
“I talked to Steve,” I say, shifting the conversation. “He’s the reason I agreed to meet with you, actually.”
Timmy perks up. “Really? What’d he say?”
“Well, he was neutral. Like, he definitely didn’t want to betray your trust, nor did he want to convince me to stay with you or leave you. But he talked about your friendship and how long you’ve known each other for. And he seems so sensible and logical, and it helped to convince me to think about giving you a second chance, even though he certainly made no attempt to push me toward that.”
He smiles, his face softening with relief, and he leans forward to kiss the top of my head. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s so nice!” His face clouds. “I spoke about you with him, too. Back after our first visit to see him. He wondered if you’re the best person for me… you know, because we both like to drink and have a good time.”
Suddenly, I feel on the back foot, like he’s been getting evaluations ofmysuitability from his friends. I guess that’s normal to a certain extent, but isn’t Timmy the one way more likely to go off the rails and leave a trail of destruction in his wake?
I’m getting a little resentful of Steve, like he’s playing Switzerland to me, but giving Timmy an earful on the back end, spilling the real tea. But I suppose that’s what some good friends are for.
As we sit there, I feel a strange push and pull inside me—a warbetween logic and emotion, between fear and longing. I know that staying with Timmy could be dangerous. But the thought of losing him—losing the version of him I fell in love with—is just as terrifying.
“By the way, my evil twin came and got her suitcase finally.” By now, we’re wandering through stores hand in hand while he looks at surfwear, and he mentions it casually.
My stomach clenches at the mention of her.
“You hung out with her?” I’m devastated.
“No, no,” he says quickly. “She randomly called me, and I asked her to please finally come and get her suitcase. I know it was upsetting you that it was there. And so when I got back to Matty’s, she was there, picking it up. I told her that you mean more to me than anything, and that I couldn’t talk to her anymore. That we were going to have a fresh start.”
I quirk a brow. “Oh? And how did she react to that?”
“She was like ‘really? We can’t be friends anymore?’ And I told her ‘yep, exactly.’ And then she left.”
“And that’s really all that happened?” I scrutinize his face for any signs of deception, but see none. Just honesty and transparency, his blue eyes earnest and clear.
“Yes. She left right after that. A car was there to pick her up.”
I feel relieved, knowing the suitcase won’t be sitting at Matty’s like a constant reminder, something continuing to link them together. And relief that he’s set a boundary with her, letting her know that she’s no longer welcome in his life. Better late than never, I suppose.
Oblivious to my complex thoughts on this topic, and unaware that I’ve reviewed their correspondence on his phone, he launches into stories about his time in jail, laughing about how the cops know him by name. “They always recognize my hat,” he grins. “It’s like I’m a local legend.”
“‘O’Malley’s here again,’ the cops will say,” Timmy says proudly.
I frown. “They shouldn’t. Why would they?”
“Well they know my hat I used to wear. And then one time I set off fireworks and they were running around looking for me. And thenthere was the time they arrested me for saying ‘I’ll kill you’ in a funny voice.”
“That’s... not something to be proud of,” I say, frowning. “Timmy, you’re too old for this shit. That’s stuff like my dad used to do when he was around fourteen years old—the fireworks part, I mean. My dad didn’t run around threatening to kill people. And you shouldn’t be proud of the cops all knowing you by name. That’s not a good thing, unless you like… work with them or something. Not because you’re someone they’re having to arrest all the time.”
Timmy shrugs and laughs. “Don’t be so uptight. None of it’s a big deal.”
And just like that, I feel the pit return to my stomach. It’s like something’s not connecting in his brain, for him to be proudly bragging about being well-known to the police.
The conversation quickly changes to how he entertained all his cellmates, and how he almost made them all vomit with his noxious farts.
I feel uneasy about his apparent lack of shame or remorse for any of this, but he makes his behavior seem so… normal, so justified.
So harmless. Part of everyday life growing up in Sunset Cay, and continuing into adulthood.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I’m just way too uptight.