I give Sabre one last cuddle before we leave. “I’ll be back to visit you soon,” I say. “I promise.”
When we leave and hop into the truck, Timmy brings out the creepy Margaux doll that he’s started carrying around everywhere. He hangs it from a fishing lure that dangles from the rear-view mirror.
“That’s a bit creepy!” I say. “It looks like it’s literally hanging from a noose.”
“That’s why it’s funny,” Timmy laughs. “And it looks like you.”
He cranks the stereo on the way back, directing me to play this or that on Spotify.
“Damn, you’re a bit of a shit DJ,” he teases me, as I fumble to find the right songs a couple of times. His phone is set up quite differently from mine, and he has a different version of Spotify, so it’s just easier to find things on my own phone.
“Stop,” I laugh, but it’s shallow, and I feel heat rising to my face. “I’m doing my best.” I know he’s only teasing me, but his comment makes me feel just a little bit embarrassed.
I think he can tell, because he takes my hand and glances over at me. “It’s okay, Margaux. Your DJ skills aren’t why I think you’re so amazing. Everything about you is amazing, except for how long it takes you to find songs.”
We drive back to town, and Timmy takes the creepy Margaux doll from its makeshift noose, and he shoves it upside down in his board shorts. I laugh as he walks down the boardwalk with a tiny doll replica of me sticking out of his pants. You can just see a bit of the bright red hair, along with its legs and boots on full display.
It’s ridiculous.
He’s ridiculous.
And I’m having so much fun.
24
SHARING IS CARING
We talk about everything.
I’ve never had this before, a partner who’s genuinely interested in the intricate workings of my mind, my soul. He’s interested in my deepest fears and regrets, as well as my hopes and dreams.
And Timmy listens, he really listens. He leans in, his gorgeous blue eyes locked on mine, as if nothing else in the world exists except our conversation. It feels intoxicating, like a drug I didn’t know I needed.
My exes have never really been into deep conversations, especially my most recent one, who would shove away any type of conversation about existentialism or anything else that would make him focus on human emotion. Any emotion, or anything painful, would make him shut down and retreat into his own little world, brushing it all off as if it didn’t matter. That was his actual saying:nothing matters.
And Timmy is such an opposite swing of the pendulum. It’s as though I’ve been walking around half-asleep for years, and suddenly, Timmy’s awakened this dormant part of me, encouraging me to unravel parts of myself that I never thought I’d share with anyone.Sure, some people know the basics, but I take him to depths I thought were buried deep inside.
“Tell me more about him, and what he meant to you,” Timmy says softly, after I mention my uncle—who was such a special part of my life, who died too young, too unexpectedly. The weight of the memory presses on my chest, but Timmy’s gaze is so full of warmth and understanding that I find myself opening up with him more than I have with anyone before.
“He was my hero,” I start, my voice trembling as I recount memories of a man who always believed in me, who was always proud of me, and was one of my biggest champions. Who helped me through one of the darkest times of my life. “When he passed, I just… I don’t know if I ever really recovered. It feels like I lost part of myself, you know? Like this big chunk of care and security that I’ll never get back.” Tears prick my eyes, and I feel my throat tighten, but I press on, trusting Timmy with a part of me that’s raw and vulnerable. “Sometimes, I still wake after a dream that makes me feel like he’s still alive. But then everything comes rushing back, and I remember that he’s gone.”
Timmy reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. His eyes are wet, too. “I get it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “Loss like that… it leaves a mark. I’ve had several friends die in the past few years. And their deaths still hurt like it was yesterday.”
The moment feels profound. For the first time, I’m with someone who seems to be able to understand. Someone who canfeelthings the way I do. Someone who doesn’t shy away from difficult emotions, or retreat when the conversation gets too heavy. Timmy leans in, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb, and my heart swells. His emotional sensitivity—it’s like a form of intelligence I’ve never encountered before in an intimate partner. It feels like he’s seeingallof me, and accepting every damaged piece of me without hesitation. And his unconditional support feels like an emotional balm, healing me in places I didn’t know I needed.
I take a deep breath, encouraged by his tenderness. I’ve alluded to my sexual assault with him before, but never gone into explicit detail. “There’s more,” I whisper, my heart pounding as I prepare to expose more of one of my greatest wounds that I generally keep buried. Like, people are aware it happened, but not the extent to which the events of that incident have affected me. How depraved my attacker was, and the indelible imprints he’s left on me. The emotional scars. “It left me broken in ways that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fix, despite all the therapy.” My voice falters, but I push through the tremble. “I have PTSD. Certain sounds, certain places… they take me back to it, and it’s like I’m there all over again. I’m sensitive to loud noises, and I can snap back into hypervigilance even though it happened so many years ago.”
Timmy’s eyes flood with tears. His hand tightens around mine, and he shakes his head as if my story is almost too much to bear. “That’s so horrible,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry you went through that. No one should ever have to feel that kind of fear.”
He looks down for a moment, his own breath hitching, as if he’s absorbing the weight of my pain. Then, without prompting, he shares his own story. “My family… I love my parents, but they were never really there for me once I became a teenager. After a fight with my sister’s boyfriend that turned physical, they kind of cut me off. They moved away, leaving me here on the Cay. My dad, especially. He couldn’t handle me. I guess I was always ‘too much’, you know?” He smiles, but it’s a sad, broken thing, filled with unspoken wounds. In that instant, while Timmy is certainly ‘a lot’ at times, I vow to never exacerbate his wound by telling him he’s too much. I feel protective of him, defensive of anyone who would make him relive how those relationships made him feel. “That’s why I haven’t been speaking with them lately,” he explains. “Well, that, and because my mother refuses to stop speaking to my ex.”
The connection between us deepens in this moment, a shared understanding of hurt and loss. It feels like we’re two broken people who have finally found the other person who can help to make us whole again. I feel free, open to be vulnerable. There’s no judgment, no impatience—just tenderness and empathy.
I wipe my eyes and look at him, grateful for his presence. “Thankyou for listening, for caring. And for sharing with me, too. It means so much.”
He smiles at me softly and leans forward to kiss my forehead, although his eyes are still clouded with emotion. “I care about everything that makes you you,” he says, his voice gentle but sure. “Every little thing. Just like I care about every one of your freckles.”
I smile, feeling a little lighter. God, this man is everything.