There’s a momentary flicker of something in his eyes—something so subtle I figure I’m imagining it. “I just want to make sure everything’s just right for you here. I know it’s much more calming to have things uncluttered and less chaotic. You’ve mentioned having your friends help you set up apartments before, and I know you’re far away from everyone you know, except me. This way, you don’t have to worry about it. I really enjoyed doing this for you.” His words are kind and reassuring, but there’s a subtle weight behind them, as if he’s done me a favor I now owe him for.
I’m too busy marveling at how perfect everything looks, how at home I feel in this space, to think too much of it. But over the next few days, little comments begin to slip into our conversations. “I spent hours organizing your apartment, you know,” he says casually, a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s probably better if we keep things how they are. I thought about putting it there, but the way I set it up is better…” And whenever I reach to rearrange something, even the tiniest amount, he’ll appear out of nowhere, gently placing his large hand on mine, saying, “Don’t you like it the way I have it set up? The way I arranged things is better. I put a lot of thought into it.”
At first, I brush it off, still basking in how kind it was of him to have done all this for me. Lending me his mattress, taking me shopping, arranging everything so I didn’t have to worry about it. But slowly, it’s becoming clear that this isn’t just about helping me. The apartment, this space that was supposed to be mine, has somehow become a reflection of him—his tastes, his control, his influence. The entire bathroom is covered in soft lilac towels and bathmats and poufs, because that’s Timmy’s favorite color. The kitchen is covered in odd trinkets I never would have picked out for myself. And the bed, the center of it all, is festooned in the ugly quilt that holds sentimental value to him, covering up the much brighter, more fun, moremeduvet cover that we’d picked out at the store.
What I had thought was an incredibly thoughtful gesture has strings attached, invisible at first, but now tightening around me. And yet, part of me still feels guilty for even thinking that way, as if I’m being ungrateful for all that he’s done.
I realize I’ve mistaken his grandiose gestures of kindness for generosity and altruism, not seeing that it was always about Timmy—his need to control, to claim the space as his own while making it seem like he was doing it all for me.
It’s not my home, it’s his stage, and I’m just the audience, dazzled by yet another of his performances.
32
DERELICT MANCHILD
The Next Day
We walk over to Timmy's truck, which is parked on the bustling street that lines Sandspit Passage, a busy canal that cuts right through the heart of the resort strip. He grabs his giant coconut hat from the back, plopping it on his head with a grin as he spins around to face me.
“Film me!” he demands, standing outside beside the truck as cars whiz by, his voice charged with sudden excitement.
I have no idea what he’s up to this time, and with Timmy, guessing is futile. But I comply, pulling out my phone, holding it steady as I hit the record button. And then, right on the sidewalk, as cars rush by, he yanks his board shorts down, revealing stripy underwear as he shakes his hips, grinning like a kid getting away with a prank. A few pedestrians glance over, looking both amused and bewildered, and a couple of drivers honk their car horns as they go by.
“Oh my god, Timmy! You’re ridiculous.” I say through my laughter, shaking my head as he wiggles his butt, the oversized coconut hat flopping with every exaggerated shake.
He straightens up and snaps a few pictures of me sitting in thetruck with my feet up on the dash. That’s when I notice a big bruise forming on the underside of my thigh, a slightly painful but undeniable souvenir of the night before. It’s weirdly hot, if I’m honest. Timmy’s uninhibited personality carries over into the bedroom in the best possible way.
Back at home a little later, he makes me ramen. The aroma is incredible—the rich umami scent filling the room as I take long, soothing sips. He’s gone all out, adding lots of extras like fish balls with the squiggly pink patterns that remind me of the movie Saw, as well as fresh cilantro and a ton of garlic, which he knows I love. I can’t help but feel charmed by all the little touches.
We settle on the bed after eating, laughing at some silly movie, and out of nowhere, Timmy turns to me with a strange kind of pride in his eyes. “I am a manchild!” he announces, beaming.
“Huh?” I quirk a brow at him.
“Yep! I am!” He’s grinning like he’s just won an award.
“I heard what you said, but that’s not… a good thing? Are you trying to say you’re young at heart or something? Because that’s not what that means.”
“Yeah, something like that,” he says, with the tiniest hint of doubt.
A moment later, he continues. “I am also aderelict!” He says it with gusto, as if being a derelict is something to aspire to.
“Um… that’s a weird thing to announce.” I squint at him, my head tilting like he’s some rare species at the zoo. “Pretty sure that’s not a compliment. You know what derelict actually means, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure I do,” he explains, as if he holds a little-known secret. “People take it as a negative word, but it means someone who rejects society’s norms. Like, the ultimate free spirit. Not tied down.”
“I don’t think that’s what it means.”
“Yeah it does.” He’s not budging, but I know he’s wrong, and his insistence on his own personal meaning is bugging me.
“Um—okay, let’s google this.” I pull it up on my phone. “Here you go:derelict. In a very poor condition as a result of disuse and neglect. As in, the cities were derelict and dying. Dilapidated, ramshackle, rundown,broken down, worn-out. A person without a home, job, or property. Tramp, vagrant, vagabond, down and out, drifter?—.”
“Okay, okay. I get the fucking point, Margaux,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to keep going. You think you’re so smart quoting the dictionary at me.”
“I just don’t know why you’re putting positive spins on words that mean neglected, broken down, or without a purpose?”
“It’s like a counterculture thing,” he shrugs. “Going against the masses. Everyone’s working in offices, hating their lives. I get a job here and there, just enough to live. I hang out outside, enjoy life, no rules. That’s real freedom.”
And, oddly, there is a bit of truth to what he’s saying. After all, I did just leave the corporate world to pursue my dream of becoming a writer. But I put in years of hard work to get to this point. I saved, I budgeted, I planned. With Timmy, it’s like he just falls into whatever comes along—helping this person move, detailing that person’s car. There’s no strategy, no end goal. Just existing, barely getting by.