Timmy sighs, rubbing his temples. “It’s not like Iwantto feel like this,” he says, his voice defensive. “I just… I don’t know. I’m not up for it right now, okay?”
It feels like I’m talking to a stranger. Where’s the guy who bounced with excitement at the idea of exploring every corner of Sunset Cay? The guy who dragged me out of bed to whisk me off to show me around? He’s here physically, but emotionally, it feels like he’s slipped through my fingers.
In some ways, I tell myself, maybe this change isn’t such a bad thing. I can’t keep funding our outings—my savings are dwindling, and the constant shopping and dining out were never sustainable. But the silence is oppressive. There’s only so much greasy food cooking and movie-watching I can take before I start to feel like I’m losing my mind. Every suggestion I make to leave the apartment is met with resistance, and I can’t write in this cramped environment.
Timmy’s mattress is shoved in a corner in a room with no natural light, and when I try to work in the living room, Matty blasts YouTube videos about home-built machinery or bizarre DIY projects at max volume. It’s unbearable. The low drone of people explaining driveway leveling techniques grates on my nerves, and I find myself grinding my teeth as I try to concentrate on anything other than how much I want to scream.
Meanwhile, Timmy sinks further into lethargy. He sleeps in late, cocooned in blankets, only waking up when he feels like it—usually well past noon. When he does stir, it’s only to suggest we watch yet another movie, eat, or occasionally, have sex. He’s exhausted thecatalog of streaming services, and the few new films he does find are interspersed with rewatching ones we’ve already seen. It drives me crazy. I’ve never understood the appeal of rewatching things, and now it’s become a point of tension.
“We literally just watched this a couple of weeks ago,” I say, exasperated, as he queues up a movie we’d already seen.
“Yeah, but it’s good,” he says, walking out to the balcony to light a cigarette. “You’ll like it more the second time.”
I groan quietly, but don’t fight him on it. Fighting takes energy I no longer have.
The hours blur together in an endless loop: wake up late, watch movies, cook, sometimes have sex, eat ice cream, he’ll smoke cigarettes, and then we’ll fall back asleep.
If I suggest going outside—taking a walk, getting some air—he continues to wave me off with excuses. But if I mention picking up alcohol, he perks up, suddenly willing to leave the apartment. I feel a flicker of bitterness at how easily the promise of booze shifts his mood.
The worst part is the resentment simmering just beneath the surface. I can feel it radiating off him, especially when I bring up doing something, anything, outside the apartment. His responses carry the weight of irritation, as if I’m nagging him simply by existing, by wanting more from this experience than just sitting around.
And so, the dynamic changes—slowly at first, but unmistakably. The man who used to be a whirlwind of energy, dragging me from one adventure to the next, now feels like a dead weight. It’s like he’s resigned himself to this dull existence, and I’m being dragged down with him.
I find myself walking on eggshells, carefully choosing my words so as not to trigger his frustration. But the frustration builds inside me instead, bubbling up like a slow-boiling pot. How did we end up here? How did I go from being head over heels for someone who felt like the love of my life, to feeling suffocated in a dimly lit apartment where the air is thick with cigarette smoke and disappointment?
I try to convince myself that it’s just a phase, that Timmy will snapout of it. But deep down, a voice whispers that maybe this is who he really is—a man who only thrives in the highs, but can’t sustain the everyday. And now that the initial rush has faded, we’re left with the truth.
77
IMPROVISED PRISON CELL
There’s something both ironic and soul-crushing about living in a tropical paradise surrounded by sunshine, beaches, and swaying palm trees—yet feeling like you’re stuck in a slightly larger prison cell.
That’s how it feels at Matty’s.
Yes, the air conditioning is nice, a relief from the relentless heat, but it’s the only luxury. The windows stay permanently closed, shutting out any hint of natural light or fresh air. The tiny, fenced-in patio smells like stale cigarette smoke, the scent so thick it seems to cling to my skin even after I shower. It’s a grim little space, like an open-air ashtray.
At first, I half-joked to myself that this place reminds me of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—a quirky, chaotic place, Timmy and Matty playing the oddball grandparent characters. But as the days drag on, I can’t shake the unsettling realization—Timmy is unconsciously recreating prison for himself.
The parallels are striking.
He and Matty sleep in beds lined up side by side like cellmates. They rarely go outside except to smoke. The concrete walls, devoid of art or color, seem to absorb any joy I bring in with me. Timmy barelyexercises or leaves the apartment unless I coax him out, and even then, it’s a struggle. Their biggest indulgences are movies on repeat, streaming endlessly, and the occasional fried meal cooked in so much oil it sets off the smoke detector.
It’s a bizarre halfway existence—not quite free, not quite imprisoned. The only real difference from an actual jail cell is the ability to cook and surf channels on TV. But somehow, this feels even sadder. There’s freedom all around us—on the beaches, in the mountains, under the clear blue skies—and yet here we are, holed up in a dark, musty apartment, like the outside world is too much to bear.
I understand that for many people, even this modest apartment would be considered a luxury. Sunset Cay isn’t exactly affordable. Foreign investors have transformed it into a playground for the wealthy, with overpriced Airbnbs and luxury villas that sit empty most of the year. Locals can barely afford to live here anymore. I get that. And I know it’s not entirely Timmy’s fault that this is where we ended up—even if he hadn’t attacked me or swung his penis around the balcony, vexatious noise complaints were flowing thick and fast, and that building was never going to be a long-term solution.
But I still can’t ignore the gnawing resentment that rises inside me. I left behind a beautiful, bright apartment with a view of the ocean, easy access to the beach, and a pool. I had natural sunlight pouring in every morning, a place where I could sit and write with peace of mind. And now, because of Timmy—because of his impulsiveness, his inability to control his rage—I lost it all. He took it away from me with no real understanding of what he was taking.
He says he’s sorry, and maybe he is. But words are easy, and I’ve learned they don’t mean much unless they’re backed by action. And he’s not exactly making an effort to fix what’s broken—not with the apartment, not with me. He apologizes, but the weight of everything still rests on my shoulders.
I’m the one who gets up early every day, puts on my shoes, and walks to the beach for the sunrise. I’m the one finding ways to escape Matty’s suffocating apartment, taking long walks in the sunshine, getting my heart rate up, and breathing in the fresh, salty air.
I’m the one buying healthy groceries and preparing meals with fresh ingredients, trying to nourish both of us. Meanwhile, Timmy spends his food stamps on processed, greasy junk food, which he and Matty devour without a second thought. They bond over bacon and fried hash browns while I try to remind myself that love is supposed to be about compromise.
I try to reframe things, to keep the resentment at bay. I tell myself that Timmy has his good moments, too. He shows glimmers of understanding that make me believe, just for a moment, that he gets it. Like when he takes me out occasionally to work away from Matty’s, finding coffee shops where we can sit side by side and dream about the future. Or when he encourages me to watch my own shows now and then without complaining. Those small acts of kindness remind me that he does care, that he’s trying in his own way.
He praises my food, saying, “I actually like salads now. You’ve changed me.” He brings me ice cream, cuddles with me, and tells jokes that make me laugh so hard I forget the frustration for a little while. Those moments feel like gold, fleeting but precious, and they keep me tethered to him.