And now, when Timmy makes an effort for us to actually leave the house so we can have some alone time doing something that makes me happy, Matty is a third wheel. It makes the whole outingfeel less special, defeating the purpose of just Timmy and I spending time together alone.
I shake the thought off, feeling guilty for even thinking it. It’s notthatbig of a deal, is it? I mean, it’s just a hike. The more the merrier. But, deep down, I know that’s not what I want. What I want is alone time with Timmy—time to connect, to talk, to justbetogether without anyone else. Our relationship needs that space, especially after everything we’ve been through. But instead, it feels like there’s always this extra person there that prevents us from expressing our true selves the way a couple normally would.
Hell, I’m resentful that Timmy and I can no longer walk around my apartment naked, enjoying each other and having sex whenever we want without timing it around Matty’s cigarette breaks. But I feel like a terrible person for resenting any of this. I’ve signed up for this relationship, and this is the price for now. And at least he’s not dangling his dick off the balcony over here.
When we get to the trail, the hike is beautiful. A lush path, lined with gorgeous native ferns and giant trees that seem to stretch up into the heavens. Roosters walk along near the entrance, and the sounds of other birds and loud insects can be heard all the way to the waterfall. I get frustrated, because Timmy keeps running ahead, jumping up into places I don’t feel comfortable going, so he can snap pictures, leaving me with Matty, who chats away. He makes jokes, and I try to smile, but each step feels heavier than it should. The whole time, there’s a gnawing in the pit of my stomach.
The falls themselves are stunning, water thundering down a rugged rock face into a clear pool lined with stones and larger rocks. We all jump in, frolicking under the falls and just bathing, enjoying the time in the water beneath the golden sun.
Timmy and I contemplate having sex up a side trail, and ask Matty go on ahead, but call it off at the last minute because there’s too much of a chance of someone walking past.
When we’re back in the apartment, Matty starts cracking open beers like he’s letting off fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Oh, your girlfriend Lila from high school wouldn’t like that,” Matty says out of nowhere, smirking at Timmy.
I glance over, confused and irritated. What is he even talking about?
Timmy shrugs, not paying attention, but Matty keeps going.
“And remember when you saw that one girl and she stayed over? She was really nuts. Left several pairs of panties here. I found them in the closet.”
I feel my stomach twist. Why the hell is Matty bringing this up? It’s like he’s trying to stir the pot, to wedge himself into our relationship and make me uncomfortable. And it works. Every time he mentions some random girl from Timmy’s past, it feels like a little jab. Like he’s reminding me that I’m not the only one. And firmly establishing that Matty knows lots of things I don’t know about Timmy’s life before I entered the picture. And Timmy just seems to let it happen, brushing it off like it doesn’t matter. But it does matter to me.
This entire apartment is becoming like an eggshell for me. One wrong move, one wrong word, and everything will crack open. I’m walking on thin ice, trying to keep the peace, trying to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s really, really not. And I’m tired. Tired of having to constantly navigate this frustrating, awkward dynamic. Tired of never having a moment to myself, and never having a moment alone with Timmy.
I glance over at Timmy, hoping for some glimpse of understanding or reassurance, that maybe Matty’s pushing things too far. But Timmy’s just sitting there, smiling, totally unfazed.
And I feel trapped.
Later that evening
Timmy is drunk, and he’s acting insane.
He stands by the doorframe, waiting for Matty to re-enter the room.
His body is rigid, and as his arm moves back, his elbow bent, I see the flash of his knife blade angled and ready to strike.
Oh my god, he’s going to stab his roommate when he comes out of his bedroom.
And for what? Because he’s mildly agitated over something stupid?
Jesus.
“Timmy,” I hiss. “Timmy! What are you doing?”
“Shhh,” he growls. His posture is off, and he doesn’t turn to look at me, but I don’t have to see his face to know it’s changed.
He’s that other person, the one who attacked me in my apartment.
I stay down low, not wanting to draw his wrath.
I can’t let this happen, but at the same time, I feel relief that I’m not his target.
But I also don’t want him to kill anyone. So I remain alert, watching him.
After what seems like ages, but is probably only a minute or so, he turns around, distracted, and places the knife down on the arm of the overstuffed armchair.
He goes to the kitchen to continue cooking, as if he wasn’t just about to shank his roommate.