By the time we reach the estuary where Steve is waiting, I feel like I’ve been emotionally whipped around. I wipe at my face, trying to salvage what I can of my makeup before we step out of the truck. Steve greets me with a polite smile, and we exchange a hug.
Timmy, barefoot and buzzing with energy, immediately runs off to feed the ducks, leaving me with Steve. I can’t help but ask, “Is he always like this?”
Steve shrugs. “He’s a lot. I’ve known him since we were kids, and I can only take him in small doses.” His eyes lock onto mine, serious now. “Maybe you should do the same.”
His words linger, a subtle warning I can’t ignore. Coming from anyone else, I’d dismiss it. But Steve’s got that quiet, measured way about him. He’s a cop—or close enough, as a ranger—and there’s a gravity to his words that makes me listen.
“Well, I’m an all-or-nothing person,” I say, putting on a bright smile. “So I guess I’m fucked.”
I can’t shake what Steve said, even as I rationalize it away, settling in my mind like a splinter. But Timmy told me himself—he hasmoody days driven by his mood disorder. Maybe this is just one of them.
And what we have is special. Timmy isn’t perfect, but he’s mine. He’s everything I’ve been missing: affectionate, funny, protective, creative, and intensely loving. Our sex life is incredible, and the way he makes me feel seen—really seen—is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Steve might think he knows Timmy, but I see a different side of him. Steve isn’t living in the moments when Timmy holds me close, kisses my forehead, and makes me laugh until I can’t breathe. Steve doesn’t see the guy who curls up next to me at night, all snuggly warmth and whispered promises.
Timmy’s rough around the edges, sure, but that’s part of his charm. And the parts that aren’t charming? We’ll work on those. He cares enough to try, and that’s all I need.
Back at my apartment,the tension melts away. I slip into something comfortable and set up my influencer post with the sex wedge, feeling more at ease now that we’re home.
Then I see the email—and my heart leaps.
Sabre’s rabies results are in. The quarantine station has approved his release, three months early.
“Oh my god!” I whisper, a wave of relief crashing over me. My baby is coming home. Soon, I’ll have Sabre with me, and everything will finally feel right. The quarantine facility is really nice, but I still feel guilty thinking about my affectionate little boy sitting there day after day, all by himself.
Timmy notices my excitement. “What’s up?”
“Sabre’s coming home early!” I beam at him, and he grins back, the day’s tension already forgotten.
We stop by Matty’s later, where Timmy poses with his fingers like devil horns above his head for a few goofy photos. As I snap theshots, I feel that familiar warmth return. Timmy is chaotic and unpredictable—but he’s also mine.
But in the corner of my heart, a small knot of unease tightens. And I know that something in this picture—this strange, chaotic love—might be bigger than me.
27
BAD GUY
The night buzzes with energy, the kind that makes your skin prickle with anticipation. There’s some type of event on the main street that runs down the length of the beach, transforming the vibrant tourist hub into a carnival of sound and color. Food trucks line the sidewalks, filling the air with the mouthwatering scent of grilled meats, sweet fried dough, and spicy sauces. Live music spills from every corner—a blend of reggae, surf rock, and acoustic ballads. Crowds ebb and flow, clusters of friends laughing, even some couples dancing, and strangers embracing the freedom of a warm, coastal night in Sunset Cay.
“I know you love people watching,” Timmy says, smiling as he watches me take it all in. “Come on,” he says, playfully grabbing my hand. “Let’s grab some little bottles of Fireball, and then I have the perfect place for us to sit.”
As usual, his spontaneity thrills me. I never know what’s coming next with him, but it always feels exciting—like a never-ending adventure. We duck into a nearby convenience store and grab a few flight bottles of Fireball.
He grabs my hand and tugs me back toward the main street, toward a large utility box, its dark green surface weathered by the saltair. “Come on,” he says, crouching to give me a boost, hoisting me up onto it before jumping up himself. We’re higher up than most people, and can see everything going on in both directions. It feels like we’re perched on top of the world.
From here, the street unfurls in both directions—waves of people, the glow of string lights, and the music drifting on the breeze. The view is exhilarating, like we’re part of the crowd but above it at the same time. Timmy cracks open one of the little bottles of Fireball and hands it to me. The cinnamon whiskey burns down my throat, filling me with a giddy warmth that makes everything shimmer a little brighter.
He drapes his arm around me, pulling me close, and kisses me on the side of my head. “Isn’t this amazing? I love you so much,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and sincere.
It’s moments like this—when he’s spontaneous, adventurous and affectionate—that make me feel like I’ve foundmy person. He brings out a side of me that I didn’t know existed—one that craves fun and freedom, that feels carefree and uninhibited. With him, it’s like anything is possible.
I feel a bit like a naughty school kid sitting up here. But what’s the worst that can happen? Someone asks us to hop back down from the utility box? No big deal at all. This is just silly, innocent fun. And I want to hold on to this feeling for as long as I can.
We sit quietly for a while, content, just enjoying the buzz around us.
Then his voice drops to a growl. “We’re going to go home and fuck now.”
The bluntness of his words sends a thrill through me.