I stay sitting on the sand, the waves lapping at the shore as guilt settles over me like a heavy fog.
Not long after, I see his familiar shape approaching the beach. He’s clutching a large tote bag, and the moment his feet hit the sand, he runs toward me with open arms. He scoops me up, holding me tight, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
“Oh my gosh, Margaux,” he whispers into my hair, his voice a mix of relief and something almost frantic. “I’ve missed you so much. I love you. I thought I’d never see you again. I was so scared.”
The intensity of his words makes my heart ache. He feels so big, his love so all-consuming, and I can’t help but get swept up in it.
Then comes the bag.
He pulls it open with a flourish, grinning wildly. It’s like a magic show—only instead of a rabbit, out comes the oddest assortment of trinkets: his tiny zebra figurine, his miniature skateboard, random shells he’s collected from the beach. Each one is presented to me like a treasure, with a backstory about how it reminded him of me.
“These shells? They’re beautiful, just like you. This one’s a speckled ginger one, see?”
“This skateboard? It’s tiny, like you. And because you like to roller-skate.”
“This zebra? It’s quirky—just like the way you laugh. And because you like to wear black-and-white stripes sometimes.”
He beams with pride as he hands me each item, his grin stretching wider with every new offering. His enthusiasm is infectious, but there’s also something unsettling about it—a manic energy that I can’t quite place. This man has literally brought me a bag of junk. Things he found on the beach, things someone else might have thrown away. But he’s offering them like they’re treasures, and he has weirdly customized each of them to me.
“Um, thank you?” I say, holding a shell in my hand, turning it over to study it. It’s chipped along one side.
“Well, it’s all I could do right now,” he says, his voice softening. “But I really wanted you to know how much I’ve been thinking of you. It’s the only way I could think of to show you how sorry I am.”
Later at myapartment
Timmy sprawls out on the bed while I sit at my desk, participating in a video call with an investigator from my old job. While I no longer work there, they reached out for my help. As I speak, rattling off names, dates, and critical moments with ease, I feel something I haven’t felt in a while—confidence. It’s like stepping back into a version of myself that I thought had faded away. I know my stuff. I’ve lived and breathed this work for years, and it feels good to own it.
When the call ends, I close my laptop and lean back with a sigh of relief.
Timmy’s eyes are wide with awe, and I can see a bulge in his pants.
“Oh my fucking god,” he says, voice thick with admiration. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re so capable and confident. Talk about a giant boner. That’s what you’ve given me, just listening to you know your shit.”
I laugh, feeling a warmth bloom in my chest. It’s flattering—especially coming from him. I hadn’t realized how starved I was for recognition. For someone to see me, to really see me, and appreciate me for all the hard work I’ve done—especially given I wasn’t receiving the same kudos at work.
It’s nice to have someone compliment me for my work. And he’s right. Twenty years of really hard work has got me to the point where I indeed know what I’m talking about. It’s a shame the company I worked for didn’t think the same. Well, actually, most of them did—I did my job reliably with rave reviews by my client groups. But the bitch in charge of my division hated me for some inexplicable reason. It wasn’t my fault she was a frumpy, jealous cunt. Seriously, the way she’s photoshopped her LinkedIn profile is a tragedy. No Marsha, we see you.
I often find that people who define themselves as strategic automatically are dismissive of me. They’re often narrow-minded glorifiedadmin personnel who weasel their way into the C-suite, all the while I’m actually carrying out multi-year plans. But go off, Marsha.
I’m salty. I don’t apologize.
And Timmy sees my skills. He’s probably never heard anything like this before. He dated a doctor once. Or maybe she was a dentist. But anyhow, he obviously couldn’t watch her work, and he likely hasn’t been exposed to what real career professionals do on a day-to-day basis. And it turns him on. And the fact it turns him on turns me on. I’m finally feeling recognized as a badass bitch. And I love that he sees that in me.
Sure, my ex would compliment my grace in the most difficult meetings that he couldn’t help but overhear, acknowledge my competence in passing. But nothing like this. Nothing so… electric. This intense appreciation is new. And it’s flattering.
And the fact that Timmy finds it such a literal turn-on? That’s also new. And intoxicating.
“Seriously,” he grins, coming over to kiss me deeply. “You’re amazing. I loved hearing you talk like that.”
The words fill me up, bolstering me in ways I didn’t know I needed.
But even as I bask in his praise, a part of me knows I’m standing on a dangerous edge. Timmy’s love feels so big, so all-consuming, that it’s hard to separate myself from it. His compliments are addicting, pulling me deeper into his orbit.
It’s like being caught in a vortex—one moment spinning with joy, the next disoriented and unsure of which way is up. Time bends around him. My judgment slows, and I find myself making choices I wouldn’t have made before him. Like ordering him an Uber when he could have walked. Like laughing off bruises left by playful jabs. Like ignoring the red flags that keep unfurling around me.
He sees me in a way no one else ever has. He makes me feel beautiful, cherished, adored and understood. But at what cost?
Even as I relish the way he admires me, a voice in the back of my mind whispers:Be careful. You’re giving away too much of yourself. He’s holding you too tight.