“You tried to kill me, Timmy,” I’d pleaded with him. “That was really terrifying for me.”
“Oh no,” he’d shaken his head, adamant. “If I’d tried to kill you, you’d be dead.”
His words chilled me each time he’d reiterated this, and he’d continued, oblivious. “I was just trying to scare you.”
I’m not quite sure how he intended his words to make me feel better, and they didn’t—it was as if he was simultaneously trying to reassure me while also minimizing his behavior. As if it’s better to make your partner think you want to—and could—kill her, than actually committing the murder. I suppose that’s technically true. I prefer the former over the latter, but it’s also kind of a crazy thing to tell someone.
But he’d followed up with the love and affection he’d promised this whole time.
“I’m beyond sorry,” he’d said, his voice eager, his eyes meeting mine. “I would never ever fuck this up again. I can’t believe things got that far. I truly love you, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
Based on his words, and everything else, dropping charges seems like the right thing to do. So I’m prioritizing my mental health, trusting his word, and pushing down any sense of regret.
I leave the office, my heart pounding, and it feels like I’ve run a marathon through my own worst memories. It’s not just what Timmy did—it’s the looming specter of my past trial—the soul-crushing process of being shredded on the stand, accused of being the architect of my own abuse. And I know, deep down, that the same tactics would be used this time, too. The detective’s smug, accusatory tone still rings in my ears. I know exactly how it would play out. And I just can’t put myself through that again.
When I get back,Timmy is waiting, impatient and tense, clearly eager for an answer. His gaze follows me as I walk through the apartment like a ghost, every step heavy with the weight of what just happened.
“What happened? Did you drop the charges?” he asks, trying—and failing—to mask the urgency, the desperation, in his voice.
I look at him, the words tangled on my tongue. I need space. I need time to process. “I’ll be right back,” I mumble. “I need to go to the store.”
I leave without further explanation, my mind a storm of anger, sadness, and exhaustion. I pull my headphones over my ears, blasting music loud enough to drown out my thoughts. As I walk to the convenience store, I focus on my breathing, trying to ground myself in the rhythm of each step. The trauma feels like it’s clawing at the edges of my mind, threatening to overwhelm me.
And maybe, if I’m honest, there’s one tiny sliver within me thatmakes me feel like—by delaying telling him for just a few more minutes—I get to feel less out of control about everything. That for once, I have a piece of information that he doesn’t. That I get to anchor to what happened without anyone else having the upper hand. That I know what truly happened before I tell Timmy, before he gets the opportunity to rewrite history, recasting the narrative so he becomes the hero of this story once again.
I buy a bottle of Irish whiskey, knowing it’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it’s the only thing that feels like it’ll help right now. When I get back to the apartment, I take a shot straight from the bottle, the warmth spreading through my chest like a buffer between me and the chaos swirling in my head.
Finally, I sit down across from Timmy, ready to tell him what he’s been waiting to hear. “I dropped the charges,” I say flatly.
His response comes immediately, relief flickering across his face, followed by irritation. “What took you so long to tell me? Why couldn’t you just say that in the first place?”
I feel a surge of frustration at his impatience. “Because it’s not that simple, Timmy. The guy tried to serve me. It was a trap, and it brought up a lot for me. Flashbacks. Stuff from the trial. I needed a second to get my head together.”
His expression softens slightly, though not entirely. He pulls me into a long hug, his arms wrapping around me in what feels like both relief and possession. “Thank you so much for doing that for me, baby,” he murmurs into my hair.
I close my eyes, torn between the comfort of his embrace and the unease that still lingers. “You need to live up to the promises you made, Timmy,” I whisper. “This can’t happen again.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his blue eyes filled with what seems like sincerity. “You can bet on it,” he says, his voice soft and earnest. “I’m ready to become a better person—with you by my side.”
I nod, though deep down, doubt gnaws at the edges of my resolve. He’s so convincing, so good at saying all the right things. But words are easy. It’s the actions that follow—or don’t—that tell the real story.And I don’t know if I have the strength to wait and see which story Timmy decides to write next.
For now, though, it’s easier to let myself believe him. To lean into the warmth of his arms and hope, desperately, that this time, he means it.
88
ACTUAL WTF
AFew Days Later
My heart pounds in my chest as Timmy’s accusations ring through the apartment, sharp and relentless and irrational.
His face is twisted with rage, and his blue eyes blaze darker as he points a finger at his slightly deflated, sagging foil baby shark balloon—the same balloon that he kept from a friend he’d mentioned once in passing. He hasn’t gone into details about who or why, but he’s made it clear it holds some sentimental value.
“I know what you were trying to do, Margaux!” He screams, his voice cracking. “You were going to pop it because you know it’s important to me, weren’t you?” His words are venomous, filled with a fury so disproportionate and so inaccurate it leaves me breathless.
I stand frozen, my hands raised as if surrendering. “I wasn’t trying to pop it, Timmy! I told you, I was trying to move it so itdidn’tget squished, because you had it between me and the hard concrete wall! I?—”.
“Bullshit!” he yells, cutting me off, his eyes narrowed into tiny little slits. The veins in his neck bulge as he storms over to me. “Youalways do stuff like this! You think it’s funny to mess with my stuff, to threaten the things that matter to me!”