Neither can I. What the hell just happened? How did I let him put me in that situation? This isn’t the life I imagined for myself. Sure, I wanted adventure—but not like this. Not reckless, dangerous, could-have-died-today adventure.
Honestly, while I feel young at heart, I also think we’re both way too old for this kind of stupid, reckless shit. We’re not in our twenties anymore.
“I’m so impressed with you,” Timmy gushes. “Most people would’ve freaked out. But not you. You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”
His words don’t comfort me—they make me feel like a fool. A fool for pretending to stay calm while my heart hammered in my chest, blood pounding in my temples, a fool for letting him drag me into this.
What kind of person doesn’t say no to something like that?
But I know the answer. A person who’s scared of being called boring, controlling, a buzzkill. Mocked for being responsible in any manner. A person who’s afraid of rocking the boat. A person who’s trying too hard to hold onto a relationship that feels like it’s slipping through her fingers.
When we finally return to the apartment, I’m trembling inside, but I mask it. Timmy is too high on adrenaline to notice. He’s grinning like a child who just won a dare.
“That wasinsane!” he exclaims. “We should do it again sometime!”
I shake my head firmly. “No. Absolutely not. Never again.”
He pouts for half a second, but then sighs. “Okay, okay. You’re right. That was kinda crazy.”
He looks at me again with boyish delight, like he’s waiting for praise. “But, come on, admit it. That wasawesome, wasn’t it?”
I force a tight smile—the gritted-teeth emoji plastered across my face. It wasn’t awesome. It was terrifying. And reckless. And completely unnecessary.
And the worst part is, I know this isn’t the last time. He’ll push the limits again. Maybe not next week, maybe not next month, and not in the exact same way. But I have no doubt he’ll find a new way to test boundaries, to see how far I’ll go. And the stakes will keep getting higher.
107
THE WEIGHT OF AN ALBATROSS
Writing is becoming increasingly difficult. Every time I carve out even a small amount of time to focus, it feels like Timmy senses it in the air, notices my focus sharpening—and pounces.
Every time I have a deadline with my editor, Timmy will invent some sort of crisis.
“This is ridiculous. Is every fucking book going to be like this?” he snaps from across the room, pacing dramatically as if my concentration is somehow a personal attack on him. “You’re impossible to be around when you’re writing,” he sneers, his tone sharp enough to cut through whatever creative flow I’ve managed to muster.
It feels like he’s flipped the switch on me. How many times have I told him the same thing, but in reverse? That it’s impossible to write when he’s lurking nearby, demanding constant attention and affirmation. If I don’t respond immediately to whatever mundane thought pops into his head, he acts insulted. As though my silence, and not wanting to constantly be pulled out of my work, is some grand betrayal.
“It’s so unfair,” he pouts, his arms crossed like a petulant child. “I don’t think I can be around you when you’re like this.”
This from the person who used to tell me how proud he was of my writing career. Who used to boast about my writing to others. Now, it feels like my work has become a battleground—a constant reminder that I have responsibilities he refuses to acknowledge.
Every time I say I’m busy, that I just need an hour or so, the passive-aggressive remarks begin, diminishing the value of whatever I’m working on.
“Oh, I’m so sorry I interrupted you from sending an email.”
“Oh, so doing a TikTok is more important than me, now?”
“Oh, you can’t write if I talk? That sounds like a fucking excuse to me.”
The message is clear: nothing should matter more than Timmy.
“Timmy,” I say, my voice strained, barely holding onto civility. “If I don’t work, I can’t make any money, and if I can’t make money, then I can’t pay our rent.” I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands, my knuckles turning white. “All I’m asking is for you to be quiet while I get this done. That’s all.”
He scoffs, dismissive as usual. “Wow, you’re so fucking extra, Margaux. I wish you would just go and work in the back room, if this is such a big deal.”
His words make my blood pound in my ears, hot and relentless. I fight to keep my voice calm, but my frustration bubbles dangerously close to the surface. “There’s no way I’m going to pay all the rent and go hide in the fucking back room while you sit out here doing nothing, Timmy!”
I’m starting to think that if he had his way, I’d be locked in the back room all the time, churning out content like a machine—spitting out anything that could make enough money to keep a roof over our heads. Meanwhile, he’d stay out here, enjoying the beachfront view, sprawled out across the bed watching movies, living off the lifestyle I’m paying for.