After about ten minutes, he runs back and does something to the back of the truck, presumably putting a stolen tag on it.
“There. Done.” He’s out of breath, and seems exhilarated by the whole thing.
He speeds us away. “We have to run. If the cops find me, they’ll lock me up for this. It’s a crime, you know. Stealing someone else’s registration.”
“Well yes, Timmy. Theft is a crime.” My heart is racing. I feel like I’ve been sitting in a getaway car waiting for someone to rob a bank. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Neither can I!” says Timmy, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling. “It was amazing!”
“Not the word I would use, but okay.” Reckless, unnecessary, stealing. Those are the words I would use. “Why didn’t you just go and pay for your registration like everyone else, rather than stealing someone else’s?”
“Too expensive,” he shakes his head. Then he grins again. “And nowhere near as fun.”
“You can’t just steal other people’s shit, Timmy. That person’s going to be fucked if the cops notice they don’t have tags. And they did what people are meant to do. Paid for their own registration.”
He grins. “I know. Suckers!”
“No, Timmy. That’s called adulting. You have to pay for this stuff. You can’t just take it from someone else.”
“Not me! Derelict for life!”
My stomach churns. I think this is my firstrealick moment with Timmy, although there have been a few other incidents that have left me feeling less than comfortable. I know everything a partner does isn’t going to be pleasing, but I have an ethical problem with theft. And, just the general premise that he thinks it’s okay to take something that someone else worked hard for, just to make his own lifeeasier. Nobody wants to pay for car registration. Literally nobody. And everybody else has other things they’d prefer to spend their money on. But Timmy thinks, for some reason, he gets to take the thing someone else paid for, just because he wants it.
But I push my thoughts back down. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. I’m way too uptight, and I’ve always been considered a goody two-shoes. People probably do this stuff all the time. I wouldn’t, personally, but I’m sure he’s not the only person who’s done it. Right?
Ugh. I don’t fucking know.
There are so many good things about Timmy. If the odd questionable action is all I have to worry about, I just need to calm down. We can work on his ethics over time. It’s going to be fine.
He drives us to the top of a hill where roosters are roaming around in a pack. And the view is incredible, a sprawling panorama looking out over large, fancy houses to the beach. The ocean seems to go on forever, the coast peppered with palm trees and golden sand.
Timmy jumps over the cobbled wall lining the sidewalk and hoses himself off. He pours water into his mouth and blows it at me in a thick spout that falls near my feet, and then he does a ridiculous dance with the hose, a massive grin plastered across his face. I laugh and laugh, feeling lighter, as he puts on his little show just for me.
“Okay, now let’s go over to where I grew up. I want to show you some more of that area.” His eyes are sparkling and he seems excited, and I’m totally fine having my very own cute surfer tour guide.
The moment we crest the hill and the other side of the coast comes into view, I feel a little knot forming in my stomach. The energy has shifted again. It’s only the second time we’ve been over this way, but I can feel the same sort of agitation emanating from Timmy that I experienced the first time when we came to meet up with Steve.
It’s not any one thing that tips me off to how he’s feeling. His words pour out a little faster, his movements get a little more rapid and less intentional. He drives a little faster. And the stories start to flow from him. Things he’s shared before about when he lived withhis ex-girlfriend’s family on the beachfront. The time he went up to another friend’s rooftop. Moments he spent at the dirt bike track and driving trucks around in the mud. It’s almost as if these stories are some type of playlist that play on a loop whenever he crests this hill.
He drives us to a lookout with a pretty view of the ocean.
He starts talking to a random guy, and hands him our shared drink. The man is unkempt, clearly on some kind of drug, and his mouth is lined with little drops of spittle.
I’m annoyed. I don’t share drinks with other people, other than my significant other or maybe a close friend. And here Timmy is, handing the can I just bought to some random nasty guy in a parking lot by the beach.
While he continues talking to the strange man, I wander around and notice a bunch of stray cats hanging out at the other end of the parking lot. Preferring their company, I walk over to them and they observe me with a cat’s typical lazy, casual arrogance. I snap a few pictures and eventually make my way back to the vehicle.
Timmy finally returns, and hands me the can. “No thanks,” I say, pushing it away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“You let that random guy sip out of our can. That’s gross.”
He looks shocked, a scornful smirk playing across his face. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes. I don’t share drinks with strangers. It’s disgusting.”
“Jesus, Margaux. You’re so fucking uptight. And rude. I share things with people. It’s who I am as a person.”