My laughter dies in my throat, and I shift uncomfortably. The playful moment has turned into something else entirely, though I can’t quite explain why.
He grins, as if he doesn’t notice the shift—or worse, as if hedoesnotice, and finds it amusing.
I try to laugh it off again, but my voice sounds strange to my own ears. The discomfort lingers, curling deep inside my chest like a coiled spring ready to snap. I tell myself it’s nothing. He’s not hurting me. He’s just playing around.
But the flashbacks won’t stop. I see the lawyer’s smug face in my mind, the disbelief in his eyes as he tried to make my pain seem insignificant. I remember how easily the truth was twisted back then, how I was made to feel like I had overreacted.
And now, standing here, staring at my bruised arm, I can’t help but wonder—am I doing it again?
I brush the thought away, force a smile back onto my face. Timmy means well. He loves me. He’s not like the others.
But the atmosphere in the room stays heavy, and the little knot in my stomach twists tighter. Because deep down, a quiet voice whispers:This isn’t okay. This doesn’t feel right. And it’s a precursor to something that’s going to be much worse.
48
IN THE SAME PLACE
Timmy and I are hanging out at Matty’s when we have another fight, and we fight hard—words flying like daggers, sharp and relentless. He starts another argument over what feels like nothing, and his cruel words sting in a way I don’t expect. Needing air, I leave the apartment without another word and head down to the beach. I need space to think, to untangle the mess in my mind, and to breathe without feeling suffocated by him.
The sand is cool under my feet as I sit near the water, listening to the waves slap the shore. The sun is dipping low, the sky streaked in oranges and purples. The sound of the surf is usually enough to calm me, but not today. My emotions are too tangled—hope, frustration and confusion swirling together like a storm cloud.
I open my phone and pull up a playlist I’ve been building. It’s called Timmy—with a broken heart emoji tacked onto the end. I scroll through the songs, playing a few, letting the lyrics hit hard. Every word feels like it was written for me, for this exact moment. The knot in my chest tightens, my emotions too close to the surface.
My phone buzzes. It's him. Of course it’s him. I ignore the call. Moments later, a flood of texts lights up my screen. Apologies—rushed and messy—pour in, and I can almost hear the desperation in his voice through the words on the screen.
Timmy:
I’m so sorry.
Please, Margaux.
I don’t even remember what we were fighting about.
Just give me a chance to talk to you.
I exhale sharply, my resolve crumbling faster than I’d like. I shouldn’t answer him. But the void inside me—the strange, aching emptiness—grows bigger without him around. He’s become like gravity, pulling me in, bending me toward him even when my better judgment tells me to resist.
So I reply.
Me:
Okay. If you promise you’ll stop treating me this way.
Timmy:
I promise, Margaux. Please, just let me see you.
Me:
Fine.
Timmy:
Can you get me an Uber?
I roll my eyes and let out an audible groan, feeling a mix of frustration and shame as I pull up the Uber app on my phone.
Why am I doing this? He could easily walk—it’s a twenty-minute stroll, maybe thirty. But here I am, once again enabling him, throwing money at the problem to bring him back to me. It feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, for god’s sake. But that void gnaws at me, and before I know it, I’ve ordered the Uber.