Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Margaux.
I wish I could be there to help you with everything.
I hate that I created this situation for you.
I love you so much, and I’m going to give you the longest, best back rub when you get back.
I stare at the message, feeling the familiar, toxic mix of emotions welling up. His words are like a balm—temporary, fleeting relief. He sounds like he means it, and part of me wants to believe him. But how can I reconcile the person who smashed my toilet, broke my things, and tried to hurt me, with the one who promises back rubs and love? The one who says all the right things when he knows I’m at my most vulnerable?
Timmy:
Remember to send me a picture of the toilet lid I broke so I can get a new one.
It’s refreshing and a relief to see Timmy holding himself accountable. I still don’t know how he expects to pay for the replacement items, but he seems to think he’ll be able to. And so he should. If someone comes to your home and breaks things, they need to pay for the repairs. It’s simple.
He can’t come and do the repairs himself, of course, seeing he’s banned from the property.
“I’ll send Matty or someone else to come and fix it. There’s a guy I used to work with who I’d trust to do a good job, and he won’t charge much.”
It feels like he’s taking responsibility and ownership for what he did, and trying to make it right. Of course, I’d love it if he could just come here and get all the information and fix it himself, but obviously that’s not an option in this situation.
I push off the bed slowly, my limbs heavy with fatigue. As I move toward the door, I pause, spotting my deck of oracle cards on the counter. It’s a strange ritual, but one that’s been grounding me lately. I shuffle the deck, and as if guided by something beyond me, I pull a card. CRY.
The simplicity of the word hits me hard.I already am, I think bitterly. But the card isn’t just about tears. It’s telling me to let go—to release, to grieve, to feel every emotion I’ve been bottling up.
I place the card back in the deck and stuff it in my bag, grab the rest of my things, and head toward the door, for now leaving the shattered ceramic, the broken carving, and the haunted memories behind me.
75
UNNECESSARY GUILT
The fireworks crackle overhead, painting the sky with brilliant streaks of gold, red and violet. After the display is finished, Timmy takes my hand, squeezing it gently as we stroll through the fragrant gardens of the resort. The air smells of jasmine and saltwater, and the sound of waves crashing in the distance adds to the magic of the night. It feels peaceful, like we belong here, walking side by side.
As we wander along the pathways, he points out native flowers and plants, describing each one with admiration. “These plumeria only bloom here,” he says, brushing his fingers lightly against a blossom. His attention to detail is mesmerizing. I’ve never met someone who notices the little things like he does, who makes the world feel vibrant and alive by simply observing it.
I glance at him, feeling both grateful and guilty. His expression is peaceful, but the weight of what I need to tell him sits heavy on my chest. “I have to admit something,” I say quietly, my voice barely audible over the night breeze. “While you were in jail, I met up with someone—here, at the fireworks.”
He doesn’t react immediately, just nods slowly, as if giving me space to speak without judgment. I tell him about the kiss—how ithappened suddenly, how I panicked and ran away. My heart thuds in my chest, expecting anger or hurt, but Timmy remains calm. He rubs the back of my hand with his thumb and says, “Thank you for telling me.” That simple sentence feels like an olive branch, and I can breathe again.
The next morning,Timmy and I take a drive to a trendy part of town. The streets are filled with vibrant murals splashed across brick walls—sunsets, oceans, mythical creatures—the energy of the neighborhood is contagious. The sun warms my skin as we sip iced coffees under a bright blue sky, the buzz of people chatting and laughing around us.
We explore the shops together, and Timmy picks out bikinis for me to try on. I’m skeptical at first, but he seems to know what will flatter me better than I know myself. He selects colors I would have never considered—pale yellow, coral, deep purple. I slip one on in the dressing room, and when I see my reflection, I barely recognize myself. I feel radiant. He’s right. How does he see me in a way I can’t?
At an indoor arcade, we find a 3D wall made entirely of paperback books, their pages springing out like wild paper sculptures. Timmy pulls me close, posing me for pictures. “Your readers are going to love this,” he says with a grin, snapping shots of me against the whimsical backdrop. It’s the kind of thoughtful gesture I’ve always longed for—someone who not only shares my joy but enriches it.
In these moments, it feels like I’ve found something rare. This kind of partnership, where creativity and love intertwine effortlessly, seemed out of reach for so long. But here it is, unexpected and beautiful, unfolding before me with each passing day.
Later, we gather groceries, and Timmy meticulously selects the freshest produce. I’ve never seen someone so painstakingly make sure they’re getting the most perfect tomato, the firmest onion, the way he does. He sees objects differently from me, noticing the beauty and imperfections in each. I’m more of a ’turn it over and if it clearlyhas a bruise pick another one’ kind of girl. He’s the ‘go through every single one in the store and I’ll have only the best’ kind of guy. I’m learning from him, to not just accept what’s given on the surface. To dig deeper, to look deeper.
He picks ti leaves and makes me a magnificent headpiece, with flowers picked out to complement my hair. He takes pictures and smiles at me with kindness in his eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, with warmth in his voice. “I’m so glad we found each other. You really are my soulmate.”
And I feel it too. I’ve never been with someone so kind, so considerate. Someone so fixated on the little details about me. Who listens carefully to nearly every word I say. Who squirrels the little details away, and then surprises me later when I least expect it, remembering even things said briefly in passing. This is the love I always dreamed of but hadn’t experienced until I met Timmy.
He strings together a delicate lei of plumeria flowers and places it over Sabre’s tiny head and drapes it around his neck, snapping a photo of my cat adorned like a king. “Look at him!” Timmy laughs, his eyes sparkling with pride. “He’s a natural.”
I laugh with him. Timmy is once again making life feel vibrant, full of art and whimsy.
He lets me braid his hair into little Princess Leia buns, running around like a kid while I double over with laughter, tears streaming down my cheeks. How could someone like this ever be dangerous?