I kiss him back. “I love you too, Timmy.”
With that, it’s like the tension that had been building all evening evaporates into the humid night air. His words, his apology—everything sounds genuine. This is the Timmy I fell in love with. The one who can make me feel cherished, heard and safe. Maybe we’ve reallyturned a corner, and we’re finally figuring out how to communicate in a way that isn’t chaotic or hurtful.
But even as I kiss him, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers:How long until the next time?
We head inside Matty’s apartment, the heavy night settling around us like a blanket. Timmy stretches out on the mattress, tugging me down beside him, and I snuggle into him, hoping the closeness will stave off the doubts swirling in my mind.
But as I lay there, I replay the evening in my head—the way Steve egged Timmy on, the smirk on his face as if he was reveling in the chaos he’d caused. And Timmy, leaping right into the trap, letting himself be baited, even though he knew better.
It’s not just the pervy comments that sting. It’s the fact that I had to beg him—multiple times—to stop. The way he seemed to enjoy the discomfort it caused, doubling down instead of dialing it back. And that’s not something I can easily forget.
Still, it’s hard to stay mad at him when he looks so peaceful lying next to me now, like all the tension from earlier never happened. His lips brush against my forehead again, a soft kiss that feels both like a promise and a plea for peace.
“Everything's going to be fine,” I whisper to myself, trying to believe it. Trying to convince myself that this isn’t part of some larger pattern—one where the apologies flow easily, but the behavior never really changes.
The next morning,things are calm again. Timmy wakes up before noon for a change, and there’s no mention of the previous night’s drama. It’s like he’s reset, as if our argument dissolved into thin air the moment we made up.
I wish I could shake off things that easily. I wish I didn’t carry the weight of every hurtful word or dismissive action.
“Let’s get breakfast,” he suggests, his voice bright, as if nothing had ever been wrong.
I hesitate for a second, feeling the weight of my own emotions still lingering in my chest. But then I tell myself that it’s okay to let it go. Not every moment needs to be dissected, not every issue is a sign of impending doom.
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “Let’s get breakfast.”
We head out to a little café by the beach, the ocean breeze cool against my skin as we walk hand in hand. Timmy’s thumb traces slow circles on the back of my hand, and I lean into him, enjoying the simple pleasure of the moment.
He orders pancakes, I get an açai bowl, and everything feels almost normal. Almost.
And yet, beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent—a tension I can’t quite name.
I know I should be happy with how things are right now. He’s here, he’s apologetic, he’s holding me like he means it. We’re eating breakfast by the ocean on a beautiful day.
But I can’t stop the thought from creeping in—how long until the next time?
Because that’s the thing with Timmy. The apologies come, the tenderness returns, but the cycle keeps spinning. It’s a ride I didn’t realize I’d signed up for, and now I’m not sure how to get off without crashing completely.
And will this be the same thing every time we hang out with Steve? I thought he was a sensible, mature guy—but the way he talks about women is juvenile and misogynistic. Even Timmy knows how to reel it in better, as long as he hasn’t had too much to drink.
For now, though, I sip my coffee, soak in the sunlight, and try to convince myself that things will be different. That love is enough. That Timmy can be the person I see glimpses of in these quiet, good moments—the person I want him to be all the time.
He leans over, kissing me on the cheek, and my heart does that frustrating thing where it skips a beat, just like it did the first time we kissed. I smile at him, and for now, I let the doubt fade into the background.
85
EXIT OF THE SKÖLDPADDA
The weight of Sven’s message sits heavy in my chest. I stare at my phone, the screen still open to the last few texts before one of my closest friends from the East Coast blocked me, reading them over and over again, hoping I missed some context that might make this feel less gut-wrenching.
Sven Sköldpadda:
You had this all planned out.
I would kill him if he were any closer, after what he did to you.
I’m going to block you now.
Gone. Just like that.