His eyes narrow. “You did, remember? When I was in jail.”
“That was different,” I argue. “You threatened to kill me. I was terrified and knew no one. It wasn’t a Tinder download for fun—it was desperation.”
He leans back in the seat, smug. “Well, I didn’t give you shit for it, so you shouldn’t be giving me shit now.”
Apples and oranges, but he has a way of making me feel like we’re looking at the same fruit. Wild.
I feel a dull throb in my temples. I want to believe him. I want to believe that it’s all just a stupid mistake. But my gut twists with unease, and the cracks in my trust feel deeper than ever. This isn’t just about a dating app—it’s about the lies, the manipulation, the inconsistencies that keep cropping up like weeds. The way he lashes out with vindictive acts that compromise the trust in our relationship.And the way that his actions constantly cause unnecessary angst and pain for me.
“You’d better not do it again, Timmy,” I whisper, deflated that the day is somewhat fucked now. “I’m not joking. If you do, I’m gone. No questions asked.”
He nods quickly. “I know. I get it. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
The next night,Steve throws a little party, inviting over a few friends to admire the structure he and Timmy have been painting. I hear their voices drifting through the open window—lighthearted chatter, some good-natured ribbing about the project. But then the tone shifts.
I hear yelling, sharp and sudden. It’s Timmy. My stomach tightens, and I know this isn’t going to end well.
When Timmy storms back into the side house, his face is tight with fury. The tension radiates off him like a storm cloud. “They can all fuck off,” he snarls.
“What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
“They were criticizing how we painted the fucking beams,” he spits, his voice dripping with venom. He starts mimicking them in a cruel, sing-song tone, like a child mocking a playground bully. “I would have done it this way, I would have done it that way.”
“Timmy,” I say gently, trying to calm him. “Guys do that sometimes. They just can’t help it when they see a home improvement project—they all have to throw their two cents in. It’s annoying, but it’s not personal.”
His eyes darken. “They were making me look stupid. They wanted me to feel stupid.”
I swallow hard. His face reminds me too much ofthatnight. The night everything went so wrong. I try to defuse the situation, but his anger hangs heavy in the air, an uninvited guest neither of us knows how to get rid of.
I leave and head over to the main house where some people havegathered. It’s mainly the female partners of their male counterparts who are still standing outside. A few kids. A few sober people. All oblivious to the tension brewing outside. I’m not proud of it, but I’m clutching a bottle of vodka. Partially because I feel like I need some for comfort, partially so that Timmy won’t drink it all and get even crazier, or be a vindictive shit and pour it down the sink like he’s done a few times before. All I know is that if he drinks more, things will only get worse.
When the rest of the guests are distracted, Steve turns to me and his wife.
“Timmy’s really on one,” he says.
“Yeah, he’s being scary out there,” I agree. “That’s why I came in here.”
“He threatened to kill everybody outside,” Steve adds.
My heart skips a beat. “He did what?”
“Yeah.” Steve sighs. “He’s scaring the hell out of everyone, acting unhinged.”
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to stave off the panic creeping in.
“You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you like,” Steve offers.
I nod, grateful for the offer, but knowing I’ll have to go back eventually. This is my life now—cleaning up Timmy’s messes, navigating his moods, and trying to keep us both afloat.
When I finally head back to the side house, Timmy is sulking on the couch, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He looks at me with eyes that are wild, unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s sorry or just waiting for another excuse to explode.
I collapse onto the couch, my head spinning from the vodka and the stress. The weight of it all presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting. I close my eyes, hoping for sleep, for some kind of reprieve. Timmy stomps around, muttering crazed words under his breath.
An hour later, I’m jolted awake by the sound of the sliding door opening. Steve steps inside, his face grim. Without a word, he grabs the rifle Timmy had propped in the corner, the one meant for their hunting trip. He says nothing. Just takes the gun and leaves, slidingthe door shut behind him. A quiet, deliberate act that speaks louder than any words.
Steve is saving us—from Timmy.
The next morning, Steve pulls us aside. “You guys have to leave,” he says, his tone final. “I’ve booked you on an earlier flight.”