It’s exhausting, and I feel like a hopeless hamster on a very unsatisfying wheel. It feels a bit like living inside a snow globe—everything looks picturesque from the outside until it’s suddenly shaken up, chaotic, fragile. Timmy alternates between apologies and excuses, leaving me grasping at every thread of normalcy, trying to pull us back to where we were before things fell apart. And, for a moment, I let myself believe we’ll get there.
Every day feels like walking on a tightrope, balancing between fleeting peace and the inevitable crash. His apologies now feel more like band-aids on a broken bone—temporary, flimsy. I want to believe he means them. I need to believe it. But there’s this persistent throb in my gut, a warning that the worst is yet to come.
It’s a pleasant surprise when I get a message from one of my childhood friends, Charlie, saying she’s in town. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, and she’d love to catch up. We quickly make plans, and as far as I know, it’s just going to be her, her kids, and Timmy and me, meeting for lunch. It sounds like a nice way to break us out of our routine and see some new faces. And a nice opportunity for Timmy to meet another of my friends.
Right before we’re supposed to meet, Charlie casually mentions there will actually be a larger group joining us. I don’t think too much of it—just a bigger table, right? But when we arrive at the restaurant, my heart sinks a little at the sight of the large party waiting to be seated.
The staff has to join a couple of smaller tables together to accommodate the entire group. Charlie greets me warmly, giving me a tight hug, and I try to relax as I take in the sheer number of people—her husband, her kids, some stepchildren, and a handful of family friends and their families. It’s overwhelming, but everyone seems friendly and laid-back, which helps me exhale a little.
“It’s so nice to see you again after all these years!” I tell Charlie, holding onto the nostalgia of our shared past.
“Likewise!” she beams. “And here, of all places! What are the chances?”
As we settle in at the long table, conversation flows easily. Memories of childhood adventures resurface and, for a while, it feels like no time has passed at all.
At our end of the table, Timmy hits it off immediately with Charlie’s fourteen-year-old son, Jackson. They’re deep in conversation, discussing the nuances between rugby and football, their voices animated and full of excitement. I watch the two of them with a small smile. Timmy’s good with kids when he’s in the right mood—his playful energy and love for storytelling make him a natural magnet.
“They’re getting along really well,” Charlie observes, glancing toward them with a smile.
“Yeah, like a house on fire,” I agree. It feels nice—wholesome, even. For once, things seem to be going smoothly.
As lunch wraps up, Charlie mentions they’re planning to head to a nearby beach for the afternoon. Timmy and I offer to show them to one of our favorite hidden spots—a quiet, secluded stretch of sand just up the road.
“We have extra beach chairs and towels if you need them,” I tell her.
“That’d be amazing! Thank you,” Charlie replies.
After lunch, we swing by our apartment to grab the beach gear. Jackson tags along in the truck with us—he and Timmy are getting along so well that it feels natural.
Once we drop off the chairs and towels at the beach, Timmy turns to me with a grin. “Hey, why don’t we take Jackson for a little drive around the neighborhood?”
I hesitate for a second, but it seems harmless enough. Timmy is in a good mood, and Jackson is clearly enjoying himself. I don’t see the harm in giving the kid a little tour before they hit the beach.
“Sure,” I agree, shrugging off the small flicker of hesitation.
Jackson settles into the back seat, and Timmy shifts the truck into gear with a little more force than necessary. The engine hums, and Inotice Timmy’s foot lingering on the accelerator a little longer than usual, but I tell myself it’s just his excitement spilling over.
At first, the drive is easy and relaxed. Timmy launches into his usual stories—self-aggrandizing tales of wild adventures, always casting himself as the star. I’ve heard most of them before, but they’re relatively harmless. Jackson listens politely, occasionally throwing in a comment or two.
He even plays a few Kiwi songs for us, which Timmy seems to get a real kick out of.
But gradually, the stories begin to shift. Timmy’s words become louder, more boastful, as if he’s trying to impress Jackson by pushing the boundaries of what’s appropriate.
“Once, I threw a beach party that got so wild the cops had to shut it down,” he says with a laugh, glancing in the rearview mirror to see Jackson’s reaction. “There were so many people there we blocked the whole street. They couldn’t even get the squad car through.”
Jackson chuckles politely, but his body language shifts—he leans away slightly, as if sensing that things are about to take a weird turn.
Timmy speeds up, the truck weaving slightly as he accelerates around a corner. I glance at him nervously. “Timmy, slow down a little.”
“We’re fine,” he says, brushing off my concern with a grin.
Then, without warning, he dives into a new story—one far darker than the harmless party tales.
Timmy grips the steering wheel, one hand loosely draped over it while he weaves down the road. His other hand gestures wildly as he launches into the story, as if it’s the most entertaining thing in the world.
“So, these two chicks were in my car,” he says with a grin that makes my stomach churn. “Both of them were hot, and I knew they wanted me. I was trying to decide which one to fuck.”
I stare at him, horrified. “Timmy, stop.”