One night, I’ve had enough. We’re sitting on the bed, a quiet evening in, and he lets it fly again, tossed in mid-sentence like acommon adjective. “Timmy,” I say, my tone sharp. “You really need to stop saying that word. You’re going to offend the wrong person one day, and they’ll punch you in the face, and I won’t stop them.”
He pauses and laughs like I’ve just told him a joke. “Aw, it’s not a big deal here. People say it all the time in the Cay,” he shrugs, almost dismissively.
Over the next few days, I realize I can’t let this slide. Every time he says it, it’s like a slap to everything I stand for. I can’t keep making excuses for him. “You know, Timmy,” I tell him one evening, trying to keep my voice calm, “it’s not just inappropriate. It’s offensive. I can’t understand why you’d want to say it in the first place.”
I try to reason with him, appeal to his desire to be well-liked, to fit in with everyone he meets. “Maybe you think it’s just a word, but it’s not. People don’t take it lightly, and honestly, I can’t be around someone who thinks it’s okay to say it. Surely, you saw that you upset a lot of people at the karaoke bar. I’m sure many of them were from here, and they didn’t think it was okay.”
He sighs and mutters, “Fine, I’ll stop.” And for a little while, he does. But I notice that whenever he’s had a few too many drinks, it creeps back in, sneaking into his speech with the audacity of someone who doesn’t really care. He even has some bizarre phrase he loves,guacamole n-word penis,which he chuckles over like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“What a strange thing to feel the need to say,” I comment, feeling my disgust deepen every time he repeats it.
“Oh, it’s an in-joke between me and my ex’s son,” he replies, looking pleased with himself. “We think it’s hilarious.”
I raise a brow, not quite believing him.
He shrugs, unfazed, like I’m overreacting. “It’s just how I talk. I say it all the time.”
I shake my head, disappointment gnawing at me. “Well, then, you’re going to have to stop saying it around me. I can’t make you understand why it’s wrong, but if you keep it up, I’ll just stop being around you.”
It hits me, watching his reaction, that he either doesn’t care ordoesn’t get it. Maybe both. He nods, as if to humor me, and I wonder if I’m fighting a losing battle.
45
IT'S 5 O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE
Afew days later
The rain has stopped by the time we pull into the beach parking lot, finding the perfect parking space right by the particular strip where Timmy wants to take me. The sky is still cloudy, and the scent of wet pavement and salt air lingers in the breeze, creating that delicious post-rain calm that feels like the earth is catching its breath.
We wander towards a convenience store on the way to the sand. Timmy grips my hand, and there’s an urgency to the way he tugs me along. “Come,” he says, like he’s on a mission. Inside, he picks up a half-pint of whiskey, and I get some water and energy drinks.
It’s early to start drinking, but I don’t want to be judgmental. I tell myself it’s harmless—just a little fun, and I don’t want to be the one who ruins the vibe. After all, it’s only a small bottle, and just the two of us, not bothering anyone.
We reach the beach and he opens the bottle with a grin. “Just don’t be obvious about it,” he says as he hands it to me. I take a sip, the amber liquid warming my throat.
Timmy takes the bottle back, and this time he drinks deeply, draining nearly a third of it in one go before sprinting into the water. Iwatch as he swims out into the ocean, his body cutting through the waves with ease, and he floats around for a while. There’s something magnetic about him—like he belongs out there in the water, where everything is fluid and wild.
I sit on a bench, enjoying the gentle salty breeze rippling through my hair, rustling the palm trees overhead. It feels peaceful in many ways, but there’s a strange edge to the day—like a tune slightly out of key. Something about the way he’s acting, a bit manic and erratic, makes me feel unsteady, like I’m riding a wave but I’m not quite sure where it’ll crash.
He runs back from the water, grinning like a kid who just won a race, and rinses himself off under the outdoor shower. Without missing a beat, he grabs the bottle from me again, takes a few more gulps, and looks at me with that same wild grin.
“Let’s go feed the ducks!” he announces, his energy surging. I’m not surprised he wants to feed the ducks. I mean, it seems like one of his favorite things to do. And it’s really surreal watching the birds interacting with him. But I hesitate, that strange feeling stirring again in the pit of my stomach. Feeding the ducks is innocent enough, but there’s something about the way Timmy hurls himself into everything that feels… off. Too fast. Too much.
Still, I follow him to the pond, determined to push away my unease and just enjoy the day. He’s teaching me that life should be fun, and the way he interacts with the birds is unique, like he’s somehow on their wavelength. They flutter around him once again, landing on his shoulders and arms, squawking as he feeds them hunks of bread.
This time, I join in. I’ve always been a bit fearful of birds, but it looks like so much fun. I hold out pieces of bread, just like he showed me, and they land on my arms and my head. Their claws are a little scratchy, and probably not very clean, but I can’t even describe the feeling of having several birds landing on you and pecking bread out of your hands, using you as a perch, their feathers tickling your face. I’m not scared like I thought I might be. I have sunglasses on so I’m not worried about any of them pecking out my eyes. I never thoughtI’d enjoy something like this, but here I am, covered in birds, laughing with reckless abandon.
Back at the apartment,the shift in Timmy’s mood catches me off guard again. It’s hot outside, as usual—sticky, oppressive heat— and yet he’s pulling on jeans. I raise an eyebrow, but he’s already admiring himself in the mirror.
“Don’t I look cute in these jeans?” he asks, striking a pose. “Mmhmm? I know they look great on me,” he brags. “They make my ass look fantastic.”
I laugh despite myself, wishing I had even half his confidence. That I didn’t judge and criticize every inch of my body. That I accepted my imperfections and even embraced them the way he seems to do.
He carries himself with such certainty, such ease. I wonder what it would feel like to look in the mirror and love everything I see, to move through the world with no reservations. To never doubt that I belonged in any setting.
Timmy makes me feel like I could maybe learn to do that—like I can stop second-guessing myself, stop being so self-critical, stop feeling like I almost have to justify my presence everywhere I go, to justbe.
And I appreciate it. I lean into it. I’ve never had it like this before.