Dex
Ican’t stop thinking about Margaux. Worrying about her.
She moves around from place to place what feels like every couple of years, and I can’t help but sense she’s running away each time.
It looks glamorous and nomadic, but her life hasn’t exactly been stable.
But there is a certain freedom in that. She’s doing something not a lot of people do.
She keeps getting involved with these dickheads, though.
I don’t think she purposely goes out there trying to find losers.
But I do think she’s easy prey.
Because she’s a genuinely kind individual. An empath.
And I get the sense that she overanalyzes her perceived flaws.
When she started dating the special agent, I felt a sense of relief. I always imagined her being with some kind of law enforcement guy. The good kind, though, because there are plenty of assholes there, too.
But I might be biased because of my own line of work. Not that I’m on that side of the law.
I’m more comfortable with the idea of her being with someone a bit nerdy. Maybe a software engineer or an architect, something like that.
But I know she wants and needs to feel protected.
I would protect her with everything in my being.
I’m trying to do what I can from afar, but it’s never going to be enough.
52
THE NUMBERS GAME
Timmy keeps slipping out to smoke cigarettes, leaving the apartment to head down to the sidewalk. Each time, it pulls at me in small, uncomfortable ways, like a stone in my shoe. There’s something unsettling about the fact he needs to leave the building entirely, pacing back and forth under the palm trees and streetlights at odd hours. I don’t want to be that person—the one who makes smoking a dealbreaker,orsomeone who doesn’t trust their partner whenever they’re not in the same room as them—but it bugs me, especially in the middle of the night.
When I’m done with some emails, I decide to head down to join him, hoping it will make these smoke breaks seem less… distant. But as I step onto the street, I see him standing with a blonde girl. She’s leaning toward him, the way people do when they’re locked into good conversation, her face tipping up with laughter that I can’t quite hear.
Then, just as she leaves, something strange happens—they both make a gesture, like they’re miming sending a text. It’s subtle, but synchronized, like an unspoken agreement. My heart drops. The scene feels oddly intimate, like the kind of exchange that shouldn’t be happening between strangers that aren’t wanting something more.
The thought slithers into my mind before I can stop it. Did he justget her number? I try to shake it off, but the way it makes my stomach churn makes it impossible.
“Did you get that girl’s number?” I ask when he sees me, my voice sounding more accusatory than I intended, but I can’t help it.
“No! Why would you say that?” Timmy says, his face twisting in offense.
I cross my arms, the knot in my chest tightening. “Why were you talking to her?”
He exhales, the cloud of smoke curling away into the night. “It makes me feel better about myself to talk to strangers,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I walk past people, I feel like they’re judging me, assuming the worst. So I go out of my way to chat, and when I get a good reaction, it makes me feel okay again.”
The vulnerability in his words catches me off guard, tugging at my heart. I feel bad for him, and want to comfort him. It must suck to feel that way.
After being with a huge introvert for more than half a decade, I’m not used to someone striking up conversations with strangers, regardless of gender. With someone as outgoing as Timmy, I’m going to have to get used to it and trust him. Still, something’s still not sitting quite right, and the image of him and the girl lingers in the back of my mind like an itch I can’t scratch.
I sigh. “That’s rough, Timmy. I’m sorry you feel that way. But why did you both gesture like that? It looked like you were pretending to exchange numbers or text each other.”
He shakes his head, frustration flickering in his expression. “I don’t know. I didn’t get anyone’s number. Why would I? I’ve gotyou. We have so much sex I couldn’t possibly be looking for any more. My dick is about to fall off, for real.” He shoots me a grin, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it—impatience, maybe, or the hint of a performance. “And besides, I really like you. Why would I fuck that up?”