I pull an oracle card. GROW.
It’s fitting. Like the universe is nudging me forward, telling me that this is the right path. I need to embrace the change, take the risk, and trust that we’ll grow through whatever comes next.
Tonight, things take a rare and sensual turn. Matty, miraculously, is out on a date—something involving a boat ride and dinner, so weknow we’ll have the apartment to ourselves for at least a few uninterrupted hours.
Timmy’s eyes light up with mischievous excitement, and I feel my pulse quicken in response. He’s always talked about wanting to try shibari—Japanese rope bondage—and now, finally, we have the time and space.
He pulls out the soft lilac ropes, his hands deft as he begins to tie intricate knots around my wrists, the strands winding their way along my body. The tension is perfect—snug, but not painful. It feels intimate, almost meditative, as he focuses completely on the task at hand, drawing on his experience with ropes from his time as an offshore fisherman. There’s something soothing about surrendering control to him in this way, letting the ropes bind me and hold me in place. He snaps a couple of photos with the rope expertly knotted around my breasts.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over my cheek. His voice is low, filled with reverence as he shows me the photo—I have to agree, it looks hot as fuck—and for a moment, I feel like we’re the only two people in the world.
With Matty gone and the apartment quiet, it feels like a pocket of peace amidst the chaos. Just us, no distractions. The ropes secure me in place, but for once, I feel free—free from the weight of my worries, from the uncertainty about the apartment, from the fears about what the future holds. It’s just me and Timmy, tangled up in something that feels as fragile as it is meaningful.
Afterwards, we lie together, our limbs still intertwined, the ropes loosened but not fully removed. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I feel like everything might be okay.
But life, as always, presses on. The next day, it’s back to reality—dealing with the truck, getting the paperwork sorted to transfer it into my name. To park the truck in our new building’s parking garage, we need to provide a driver’s license to match the ownership details, and Timmy doesn’t have a license. Plus, he’s offered to give the truck to me as a gesture of goodwill, a contribution toward our first couple ofmonths of rent. Of course, being Timmy’s vehicle, back payment is owed on the registration, and it needs safety tags which is a challenge with a beater like that. It’s another task I take on, knowing that Timmy is leaning on me to handle the logistics. It’s exhausting, but I tell myself that it’s worth it. That we’re building something together, even if it’s messy and complicated.
He promises to pay me back. He always does. And I want to believe him, but there’s a small part of me that wonders how long I can keep carrying the weight of us both. How long I can keep filling in the gaps, smoothing over the cracks.
Still, I hold onto the moments like last night—the tender ones, the ones where it feels like we’re both trying.
94
HOPE FEELS BETTER THAN DOUBT
The barbecue with Rebecca and Jetson feels like a breath of fresh air, a reminder of what normal life can look like. Their beachfront home is nothing short of paradise—a sprawling balcony that stretches right over the water, where the waves crash so close that the mist occasionally drifts over the wooden railings. The air is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of grilling meat, the sweet-and-salty scent of the ocean, and the faint hum of laughter as friends chat and unwind around the fire pit.
It’s an eclectic mix of people—locals and visitors, surfers and artists, entrepreneurs and digital nomads—giving the gathering a vibrant energy. There’s a sense of community here that I haven’t felt in a while, and it feels good to be among people who seem genuinely happy.
Timmy slips seamlessly into the fold. He beams with excitement at the grill, his element, as he pulls out some venison from the freezer bag he packed. “You guys gotta try this,” he says, proudly displaying the cuts of meat from the deer he hunted over at Steve’s place on Solvana. Watching him light up, sober and engaged, fills me with a sense of relief I didn’t realize I needed. It’s a glimpse of the man I hoped he could be, the one I still believe in.
He laughs easily, making conversation with everyone, and for once, I don’t feel the familiar tightness of anxiety creeping in. He isn’t drunk, slurring words, or crossing boundaries. He’s just Timmy—playful, social, and full of stories.
Midway through the evening, he wanders off and, after about twenty minutes, comes rushing back, a grin plastered across his face. “There’s a bunker under the house!” he announces, his eyes sparkling with childlike wonder. He scrolls through his phone, showing everyone grainy photos of the bunker’s dusty interior and cobwebbed corners. His excitement is contagious, and soon people are talking about apocalypse scenarios and the usefulness of secret bunkers. It’s one of those silly, spontaneous moments that make gatherings like this so memorable.
Later, we gather around to play some cornhole, and at first, everything is lighthearted. But after I beat Timmy three times in a row, his mood shifts just slightly. It’s subtle, but I know him well enough to see it. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his smile tightens at the edges, and he starts making little jabs.
“You always cheat at everything,” he says with a playful grin, but there’s something lurking underneath the humor. “Fucking cheater.” His words feel like the beginnings of a sulk—like a kid at a birthday party, irritated that things aren’t going his way. It’s not a tantrum, but it’s close enough to make me brace myself for more.
I expect him to escalate, but—whether it’s the absence of alcohol or just a good day—he lets it go. The moment passes, and he even manages to laugh it off, throwing his arm around me like a good sport. “You’re actually really good at that. I’m so impressed by you. You’re good at literally everything you do.” He kisses me on the cheek.
For once, the day ends on a high note. No big blow-ups, no arguments, just a pleasant, peaceful day by the beach with friends.
In the days that follow, I throw myself back into my routine—walking to the beach at sunrise, writing, working out. Each morning feels like a small victory. I’m carving out moments of peace amidst the chaos, and it makes me proud that I’m sticking to my goals, especially when Timmy and Matty seem so content to laze around.
When I swing by my apartment to grab a few things, I pull an oracle card. TRUST.
I turn the word over in my mind, contemplating what it means in the context of my relationship with Timmy.
It’s been a few good days. Timmy hasn’t had a drink, and he seems calmer, more centered. I can see the effort he’s making, even in the little things. He’s been cooking more, and not just greasy breakfasts, but healthier meals with me in mind. He’s started picking flowers again, weaving them into beautiful leis like he used to do when we first got together.
It’s only been a few days, but in the grand scheme of our chaotic relationship, a few days without conflict feels monumental. Each small gesture, each sober day, feels like a step in the right direction. And while I know it’s too soon to let my guard down entirely, I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope growing inside me.
A few dayslater
The St. Patrick’s Day celebration with Rebecca and Jetson cements my hope a little further. It’s a cute, festive community event—food stalls, art exhibitions, live music. The kind of laid-back evening that reminds me why I moved here in the first place.
There’s alcohol everywhere, but Timmy doesn’t touch a drop. He doesn’t even seem tempted, which is a relief. Rebecca and I indulge in a few whiskey shots, giggling as the warmth spreads through our chests, but Timmy stays steady, smiling and relaxed.