But I go to sleep and he leaves the property, in a vehicle, intoxicated, and goes to hang out with other unknown intoxicated people? Supposedly at a random bar?
Talk about a double standard.
But he’s drunk, and he’s unable to be reasoned with at the best of times, when it comes to him doing something wrong. When it comes to holding him accountable.
I take a deep breath and a very slow exhale.
This will have to wait until morning.
92
MOVING THE PROBLEM, SHIFTING THE BLAME
“Listen, I have an idea,” says Timmy. He pitches it perfectly, his voice smooth and reassuring, like he’s thought everything through just for me. “I know that me being around bad influences bothers you,” he says, squeezing my hand. “And I get it. I want to do better—for you, for us. So, I’ve been thinking…. we could move to the other side of the Cay. It’s quieter, cheaper over that way. We could probably even swing a beachfront place. And the surf is amazing… it’ll be a great place to teach you.” His face softens as he leans in closer. “We could work on our stuff—your books, my art, really focus on our relationship without all the other distractions. Just us.”
The idea of moving to the other side of Sunset Cay feels like a lifeline. It sounds perfect. Almost too perfect. But I push that nagging thought aside. What writer doesn’t dream of a peaceful, visually inspiring place to focus on their craft, far from the noise and distractions? This could be the reset I need—the resetweneed. And I sure as fuck know we need to get out of Matty’s apartment.
We spend the next few hours scrolling through listings together. He’s right—rentals on the other side of the Cay are not only affordable,but beautiful. Beachfront units with views of the ocean, the kind of place I’ve always wanted to live. And it’s flattering that Timmy is so eager to start fresh with me, uprooting his life and leaving behind whatever bad influences still tug at him from this side of the Cay. It feels like a new chapter—a chance to escape the noise and chaos. A chance to embrace creativity, time together as a couple. Even a bit of romantic solitude.Teamwork.
But a small voice whispers in the back of my mind:What if it’s super lonely out there? Far from everyone and everything you know? What if Timmy acts out?I push the thought down. This is an opportunity, and I want to believe that Timmy is sincere about making things work between us.
We catchthe bus the next morning, excited to see a few of the more promising apartments in person. The ride is long, winding through lush greenery and cliffs that drop into sparkling, turquoise water. We hold hands on the trip, sharing headphones and playing songs for each other. By the time we arrive, the salty breeze feels like a promise. I can already picture us here, far away from the stress, distractions, and judgmental neighbors. And, of course, Matty.
The first apartment we see is in a charming little condo building with a nearly private, pristine beach out back. It’s an older building, but the upgrades give it character—a blend of rustic charm and modern touches.
Timmy lights up as we walk through it, bringing the space to life with his ideas. “We’d put the bed here,” he says, pointing toward the large window that faces the ocean. “And we could even sleep out on the balcony some nights, under the stars.”
I can already see it—us lying under the night sky, listening to the waves crash, Sabre curled up beside us. It feels like magic.
Then we tour a larger apartment community right on the beach. The place is practically a mini-resort, with a giant pool, a fitnesscenter, and even a little convenience store tucked near the lobby. Timmy holds my hand tightly as we walk through the grounds, both of us buzzing with excitement. The apartment itself is quite run down, and the leasing agent explains that it’s in foreclosure and the bank may seize it at any time. So while we like the complex, the particular unit doesn’t seem like a great fit.
We apply for the first place we saw. I’m already picturing us living there, imagining morning swims and quiet nights under the stars. But the call comes later that afternoon.
“I’m sorry,” the leasing agent says. “We just rented it to someone who came to see it a few days ago.”
My heart sinks, disappointment heavy in my chest. “Okay,” I say, trying not to let it show. “Thanks for letting us know.”
Timmy pulls me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll find something better. I promise.” His optimism is contagious, and I allow myself to believe him, even though there’s a knot of unease forming deep in my gut.
The next day,we look at another set of apartments in the larger complex. One is on the upper floor, but the moment we step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the clutter—it’s furnished, but in a way that makes me think the landlord has just packed it to the brim with all their spare furniture that they don’t want, random knick-knacks strewn across every surface. And the bathtub is filled with at least half a dozen very large—thankfully dead—cockroaches.
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not too sure how Sabre will fare with this upstairs balcony,” I say, gesturing toward the railing and the decent-sized drop to the ground floor below. “I can see him zooming out there when he’s being silly, thinking he could fly.”
Timmy laughs. “Totally. Let’s go check out the one downstairs.”
The moment we walk into the lower unit, it feels different. This one is much nicer. It’s been newly renovated—modern fixtures, fresh paint, and sleek granite tiles throughout the floor plan. The landlordhas even added little touches like built-in shower nooks, and a stylish, deep square sink. But it’s the view that steals my heart.
Just beyond the sliding door is a patch of grass, a tall chain-link fence, and then the ocean stretching out as far as the eye can see. It feels perfect.
Timmy grins, wrapping an arm around me. “Look at this view, babe. Sabre’s going to love it.”
My heart swells with excitement. “We have to get this place,” I whisper, already picturing Sabre basking in sunlight by the door, watching as the waves roll in and birds frolic in the grass.
I call the landlord immediately, eager to submit our application.
But just as I’m about to fill out the form, Timmy hesitates.
“Um… I don’t think you should put my name on the lease,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.