Usually, his mouth just twists into a scowl, ready to hiss projectiles defending the situation, as if my discontentment is the problem, and my problem alone.
But one day, instead of yelling at me, he just sighs, as if my request is a burden. “I get it, Margaux. I’ll try harder.”
I blink in surprise, not sure if this is some kind of cruel test.
I can’t stand it. “Timmy,” I plead, “can we please go somewhere? Just the two of us? Matty’s very kind to let us stay, and I don’t mind him coming along with us on some outings, but I need time just with you. To focus on us.”
He looks at me, guilt flickering in his expression. “Okay,” he says. “I get it. I’ll do better.”
And, once again, to my surprise, he does. We find a small café a few blocks away—a Starbucks, of all things, nestled inside a hospital. It’s well-lit, has plentiful tables, wi-fi, and even a cute little outdoor area.
It becomes our new temporary workspace, where he designs graphics and I write. Sitting beside him, working together on our individual projects, feels almost like a dream—a glimpse of the life we talked about, the life I thought we’d have. He’s focused and creative, and it’s infectious. His excitement for his designs makes me feel more motivated, more alive.
It’s not perfect, though. Every few days, I have to remind him not to slip back into old habits. But it’s progress, and I tell myself that progress, no matter how incremental, is still worth celebrating. Two steps forward, one and a half steps back—but forward nonetheless.
As frustrating as it can be, I also wonder if this slower pace is teaching me something. Maybe the relentless urgency I’ve always felt isn’t sustainable. Maybe I need to slow down, to embrace this more relaxed rhythm of life. Maybe the universe brought me here to learn exactly that.
And so I try to be patient, to appreciate the little victories. The coffee shop afternoons, the moments when he listens without defensiveness, the rare times he wakes up early enough to see the sunrise with me—just kidding, he never does that. But I remind myself that change doesn’t happen overnight, and maybe I just need to give him—and myself—more grace.
But deep down, I can’t ignore the restless itch beneath my skin,the nagging voice that whispers this might not be enough. That no matter how many steps forward we take, we’re always teetering on the edge of sliding back—and, like a game of chutes and ladders, maybe it won’t be just half a step back, the setback could be huge.
Because, while it is a form of progress, let’s be real—we’re sitting in a chain coffee shop inside a hospital—not on the beach or by a pool enjoying what the Cay really has to offer. Not surfing, or swimming, or walking hand in hand along the boardwalk, all of which now feel like a distant dream.
And I wonder how long I can hold on, hoping for the life I imagined, while the reality of life with Timmy pulls me in the opposite direction.
83
OFF-LIMITS (BUT IT DOESN’T STOP ME THINKING ABOUT YOU)
Ifind myself randomly wondering about Dex. What he’s up to. If he’s still dating the girl he’s been with for a couple of years.
I’ve always felt this weird kind of jealousy ever since they got together, same as when he was engaged. Like I’d missed some delusional chance of being with him.
Not that it would make any sense. You just don’t go around dating your brother’s best friend. And there’s a big age gap, and he’s happy. Ugh, why can’t my pussy just behave and realize he’s off limits.
As far as I can remember, he was always dating someone, like a serial monogamist. Delaney or Brooklyn or the one I used to call Bobble Head. Which was mean in hindsight. But they were all these very attractive women who seemed to have their shit together. The exact opposite of me, an awkward little kid.
And Dex himself, like some sort of god. The way he can look at me and make him feel like I’m the only person in the room. The details he remembers that nobody else would give a second thought to. The little gifts he used to bring me back from his travels, some of which I’ve kept in a cherished box of trinkets in my room.
The complete opposite of my brother, who couldn’t even find the time to see me in my school play, or who would invite me to a concertwhen I was a teenager as a gift, and then turn around at the last minute and try to charge me for it.
But that’s all silly. It probably didn’t mean anything to Dex anyway, even though it meant a hell of a lot to me.
I get the sense that Dex would never tolerate behavior like Timmy’s. He’d never sleep in all day and laze around. He’d be off doing things, whether it be his mysterious job or just keeping himself busy—working out, working on his motorcycle, tinkering around with something, anything, to keep his mind busy. He has ambition, goals—always has.
Besides, I’m in a relationship myself. And I’m fine. No need to go and be some kind of home wrecker. Everything is fine-ish here, and I truly hope he’s doing well. It’s just some weird schoolgirl fantasy I have when it comes to him, and I need to leave well enough alone.
And maybe that’s what chosen family means. Maybe I love him, but in the way you might love an older sibling. Although, I don’t dream about my older siblings the way I dream about Dex.
Thank god. That would be really fucked up.
84
A BIT OF A DOUCHE
Timmy’s phone buzzes loudly, shattering the lazy stillness of the day. Timmy answers with a grin, launching into rapid chatter. From the way his face lights up, I know it’s Steve. I can only catch half the conversation, but whatever Steve’s saying has Timmy buzzing with excitement.
When he hangs up, Timmy beams at me, his energy already surging. “Steve’s coming to pick us up! We’re going on an adventure!”