Timmy reiterates my point to Steve, but he still won’t budge.
I’m so furious. If I knew it was going to cost me a grand, I would never have agreed to go. I would have convinced Timmy to say fuck off to his friend taking advantage of him, and instead we could have used the money to go somewhere nice, just the two of us. I wouldn’t have stayed in someone’s shitty side house and had to listen to their misogynistic comments all week, and pay for the privilege. What a fucking tool.
Timmy slams the phone down, his face tight with rage. “I’m done with him,” he growls. “Done with everyone. It’s just us now.”
Feeling tricked, and with the financial pressure mounting up even more unexpectedly, my resentment continues to build. Now it’s not just Timmy taking advantage of my kind nature, because at least wehave a relationship. But now it feels like his friend is doing the same, too.
“I’m so sorry he’s doing this,” says Timmy. “I never would have agreed to do this if I knew he was going to use me and waste your money. I should have known.”
“This is why it should just be the two of us,” he adds. “I’m never helping another user friend again. Fuck everyone else. Fuck everyone else, except for you and Sabre.”
He pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me as Sabre weaves between our legs. “It’s just us, babe. Our cute little family.”
As we drive backto our barely set up new apartment, the weight of everything presses down on me—his lies and deception, the financial strain, the constant back-and-forth of highs and lows. I want to believe things will get better. I want to believe we’ll find stability, that the move will give us a fresh start.
But a nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers that this cycle won’t end. There will always be something. Timmy will always find some way to create chaos, and in the rare instance he doesn’t, one of his friends will.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he says softly. “We always do.”
I nod, but I’m not so sure.
It really is starting to feel like Timmy and me against the world.
Except, minus Timmy, when he doesn’t feel like it.
102
KNIGHT WITH A SHINING IMPACT GUN
Now that we’re back in Sunset Cay, Timmy takes the lead on properly setting up the apartment, and it issocute.
Like my last apartment, the configuration is way better than what I would have come up with.
He’s once again thought about where is going to work best for me to write for the most inspiration.
The bed is in the corner, right by the window, so we can see the ocean at all times. The bed also serves as our couch and office. It faces the TV, which sits on a nice big stand with storage squares. We got cute little storage cubes to fit in each square.
He decorates the apartment with beautiful shells he’s picked himself, and he ties some ti leaf leis to the curtain rod, so they can sway in the breeze when the sliding door is open.
Because the mattresses are different sizes, there’s even a cute little ledge jutting out on the beach side that Sabre uses as his little cat bed.
He organizes a tackle box in the bathroom, placing my most frequently used cosmetics and toiletries so they’re easy to access. He puts up the shower curtain.
As I survey the area, I realize things are shaping up really nicely.This place isfinallystarting to feel like a home. Our home. Just Timmy, me, and sweet little Sabre.
My resentment toward having to go to Solvana starts to dissipate like a distant memory. This is our time now, to focus on each other and our work. To become a stronger couple, and to strengthen our ability to create and produce great books and clothing designs that people will love.
There are no more external stressors—no more court dates, no more mandatory trips to help friends, no bad influences, no extra worries weighing on our minds. Now, we just get to be us, and enjoy the life that we’ve both longed for.
I ask him to set up the kitchen cart, but he just doesn’t seem to want to.
It’s fine. He’s done a lot already. And I pride myself on being able to put together furniture, even though it’s not my strength.
So I kneel on the floor, the instruction booklet sprawled in front of me. Screws, hinges and wooden panels are scattered around me in relatively organized chaos. The kitchen cart idea seemed like a good one—a cute little addition to make our space more comfortable—but it’s definitely one of the more complicated furniture assemblies I’ve done, and now, with the cracked wooden top and the drawer stubbornly refusing to align, I think I’ve met my match.
Timmy sits on the bed, sipping on his beer, arms crossed, watching me with a faint smirk curling the corners of his mouth. He’s so handy, and probably could have done it much faster, but he’s set up the rest of the apartment, so I figure I can do this part.
“You’re really good at this, babe,” he says, lazily. “Never knew you were built for furniture assembly. It’s so hot watching you use my impact gun.” His voice drips with amusement—not quite a compliment, not quite an insult—something in the middle, sharp and smug.