I glance at Timmy, who is now blinking furiously, his eye red and watering.
She’s right—this is far from normal.
I’m thinking it’s mania. He has no money or drug connections out here, but God knows what he’s capable of when left to his own devices.
Alice:
I don’t know. I hate that you guys cohabitate.
I sigh. So do I at this point.
Timmy’s energy doesn’t wane. He grabs his sock monkey toy and starts smacking one of Sabre’s favorite soft toys with it, cackling the whole time.
Sabre looks on from his perch on the windowsill, his ears pinned back in disapproval.
“Stop!”I say, beyond frustrated. “You’re not five years old. And I will fly the friend who gave Sabre that toy over here to sort you out if you keep doing that!”
Timmy pouts, but sets the sock monkey down. “It’s Dad’s birthday today,” he says, his tone shifting to something resembling normalcy. “I’m going to call him later.”
“Good,” I reply, hoping his dad might talk some sense into him. His dad is one of the few people who can occasionally get through to him. I’m more exhausted than ever, and I could really use the assist.
I message Alice:
Me:
I made a conscious choice to start prioritizing my writing over his nonsense, and it’s been working. 5k words first thing when I wake up, no question. This started last week. I’m layering in more priorities over him. But I’m taking weekends off writing (not really from work because I’m working on this store I’m making—with him).
Alice:
I dislike you’re doing it with him, but I love your dedication!
Her words are like a warning bell in my ears. I hear where she’s coming from, and have my own doubts about approaching anything at all in partnership with Timmy, let alone a business venture.
Later in the evening, Timmy’s antics take another bizarre turn. “I have a jet ski!” he announces proudly. “I ride it everywhere.”
I lower my laptop screen and give him a look. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?”
“I told you. I have a jet ski,” he repeats.
I’m too exhausted to argue. “Sure, Timmy. That sounds completely plausible. I’m sure if you did have a jet ski, it would have been a gift, not something you bought for yourself.”
“I got it as a bonus for painting a crane,actually,” he says, his voice dripping with self-importance and hurt. “Fuck you! You’re so mean!” he yells, before storming out the door.
It beeps behind him as he leaves.
Me:
Alice:
Again? What for? To adjust his socks?
I laugh despite myself, and fill her in on JetskiGate.
Alice:
Okay. That could be true. Or a hallucination.
Me: