“You are my penguin,” he says randomly as we drive along a gorgeous, winding coastal road flanked by steep, emerald green hills to one side and sparkling turquoise water on the other.
“Your penguin?” I ask, quirking a brow.
“Penguins have one mate for life, and you’re mine. I never want to be with anyone else. You’re my person, and nothing can ever comebetween that. So you never have to worry about me even looking at another girl again. Because you’re it for me.”
I like his words, yet I have some reservations based on other stuff he’s said and done. I weigh up the situation and decide to press a little further. “But what about when you said that you still get to look at other girls and say ‘yeah, you!’? What about when you said you still wanted to be able to flirt? What about the times I’ve seen your head pivot like a ceiling fan when a girl walked past?”
His expression flickers with mild annoyance and some confusion. “Was I drunk all those times?”
I think back to each situation and nod. “Well, you’d definitely been drinking, but that’s not really the point, Timmy.”
He nods as well. “Listen, you really are my penguin. You don’t have to worry about any of that. And I’m sorry for what happened in the past. That stuff didn’t mean anything. You’re it for me, I love you, and you never have to worry about me looking at anyone else ever again.”
His words are comforting, soothing, and I feel myself exhale, releasing some of my tension. Sure, his actions might not have quite lined up with his words to date, but he has a way of explaining things that brings me comfort. It’s like he’s stepping our relationship up a notch. This is what I want to hear—his reassurances, his promises. I can feel the cracks in my resolve slowly sealing themselves up.
101
PSYCHOS & CHEAPSKATES
After a few days on Solvana, right before Steve’s wife and child return home, things only get worse. Steve corners me, asking me to clean his house from top to bottom before his wife gets back. I’m exhausted and irritated—I find it quite rude of him to ask, but I do it anyway.
I vacuum and sweep, and worry that I’m doing a good enough job—he makes it very clear that his wife is a neat freak and strikes terror into him with her expectations which he has kindly passed onto me. It’s a large house, and it takes a while. I hate how eager I am to be helpful, and how I feel like I need to earn the space I take up, even when I know I shouldn’t have to.
Timmy starts drinking more, and so do I. It’s the only way I can numb myself to the awkwardness and stress, and distract myself from how resentful I am that we had to make this trip. We bicker in quiet corners—nothing explosive, just those little jabs that come from being tired and on edge. I know we’re both struggling, but his moods are becoming more unpredictable, and it’s wearing me down.
Without warning, Timmy shaves his beard off for the first time since I’ve met him. He looks younger, and reminds me of a boy band member. He’s cute either way, but I can’t help but think this is a signof him being more agitated, outwardly changing his appearance in a fairly drastic way to get attention, to soothe something simmering inside of him. Instead of adding bone necklaces or superman capes, he’s removing facial hair.
Sabre’s the only one who seems to be thriving, zooming up and down the steep loft stairs, his tail high in the air. He darts around the garden, chasing invisible creatures and sniffing plants. His happiness is the only thing that gives me a bit of peace—at least something in our little world is going right.
A few days in, Steve approaches us, an expectant look on his face. “Hey, so I need you to stay another week or so to look after the animals while we’re away.”
Timmy and I glance at each other. “Are you open to that?” Timmy asks me.
“Yeah, sure,” I shrug. Not wanting to create a problem. I am getting some writing done from here, but it’s just delaying setting up our apartment and establishing our new routine even further. I ordered supplies based on when we were originally meant to be back, but I figure they should be okay for a few days longer. At this point, I’m too tired to put up any kind of fight.
The next day,any remaining warmth from the moment Timmy called me his penguin well and truly dissolves. I have his phone in my hand, scrolling to find a song to play, when the bright pink and white Tinder icon jumps out at me from the screen like a flashing neon sign. My heart drops.
“What the fuck is this” I ask sharply, holding up the phone.
Timmy glances over and, for a moment, his face shifts—somewhere between annoyance and defensiveness. “What?” he says, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
“Why is Tinder downloaded on your phone?”
He groans like I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. “I don’t remember downloading that.”
I scoff. “Tinder doesn’t just download itself, Timmy.”
He shrugs, irritated, but trying to play it cool. “Well, open it. I bet there’s no profile set up.”
I press on the icon. Sure enough, the login screen pops up. He’s not logged in, and there’s no active account. But that doesn’t matter. The fact that the app is there at all makes my stomach churn. “Why would you download Tinder while we’re engaged? That makes me feel sick.”
His defense comes fast, as if rehearsed. “I was drunk and mad at you for hurting my feelings. I don’t remember downloading it, but I guess I must have. But clearly, I didn’t follow through with anything. I didn’t message anyone. You’re everything to me.:”
I stare at him, disbelieving. “So, what? It was a revenge download? You thought, ‘Hey, I’ll just download Tinder and see what happens?’”
He rolls his eyes. “Look, if I downloaded it, it wasn’t serious. It’s not like I’d actually talk to anyone. I’d only want to download something like that for sex, and I couldn’t handle sex any more than what we already have. I can barely keep up with you.”
The flippancy in his voice makes me want to scream. “That’s not the point, Timmy. How would you feel ifIdownloaded Tinder when we were fighting?”