As I walk out of the coffee house, the brisk air hits me like a slap in the face. My thoughts are heavy, my mind racing with everything Cynthia said. It feels like the system is rigged, like it’s designed to grind victims down until they give up. To make them feel worse and to discourage them from coming forward.
And Margaux is a smart cookie, but the whole process just sounds... confusing and overwhelming, in a situation where I’m sure the victims of these crimes are already confused and overwhelmed.
Margaux doesn’t deserve that. She deserves peace, safety, and the chance to heal without the constant shadow of fear. And if the system won’t give her that, I will. Whatever it takes.
I clench my fists as I walk to my bike, determination settling like a stone in my chest. Margaux doesn’t need to face this alone. Not anymore.
Because while the system might be broken, I’m not.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe—no matter what lines I have to cross.
CHAPTER 8
I'M SO EXTRA
MARGAUX
Afew days later, we’re sitting on the bed. Timmy is immersed in some sci-fi movie while I’m trying to read a book for work to understand a few tropes I’m less familiar with. The contrast couldn’t be starker—him, absorbed in fiction purely for fun, and me, fighting to stay focused on a work task I genuinely need to get through.
At first, his running commentary is just background noise. A comment here, a question there. But as the movie progresses, his words start coming faster and louder, like a child unable to watch quietly. He’s narrating every scene, asking my opinion about characters and plot points he knows I’m not paying attention to. HeknowsI detest this type of sci-fi, too—the kind with aliens and spaceships—I respect that other people enjoy it, but it’s just not my thing.
“Timmy, please,” I say, trying to keep my tone calm but firm. “I need to read this, and you’re slowing me down.”
His head snaps toward me, his expression morphing from casual to wounded in an instant. “You’re such a bitch! I can’tbelieve you’re so mean and cruel to me. I was just including you in what I was doing.”
I take a deep breath, counting to three in my head. “I’m not being cruel. I’m just asking for a little peace and quiet so I can concentrate.”
“You should really stop drinking,” he snaps, his tone laced with disdain. “It turns you into a complete asshole.”
My stomach twists. I’ve barely touched my drink. It’s not alcohol fueling my frustration—it’s his constant disregard for my boundaries, my work, my time.
“For fuck’s sake, Timmy,” I finally snap, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay composed. “I just want to sit here and read. Can’t we do separate activities side by side? Must we do exactly the same thing at all times? I love you, but for fuck’s sake.”
He huffs and turns his attention back to the movie, sulking like a scolded child. I try to refocus on my book, but my motivation for reading has evaporated, replaced by a simmering frustration that refuses to let me settle.
Shifting gears, I grab my laptop and open a document. Writing has always been my escape, and I hope the shift will help me channel some of this energy into something productive. My motivation to write usually dries up the moment Timmy starts acting like this, but today feels different, so I go with it.
For a moment, it works. Words flow freely, and I start to feel a glimmer of accomplishment. But it doesn’t last long.
The movie ends, and Timmy switches to playing Mario Kart.
I brace myself, hoping he’ll get absorbed enough in the game to leave me in peace. But it’s not long before his voice rises again.
“Stupid fucking game!”he yells, slamming the Switch down on the bed. “It’s sorigged!The computer isagainst me!”
“Timmy, it’s only a game,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just try again. Please, I’m trying to write.”
He glares at me as if I’m the source of his frustration, his anger at the game spilling over onto me. “Don’t tell me to be quiet in my own house,” he growls. “Fuck you.”
I swallow hard, willing myself not to react. The tension in the room is suffocating.
He picks up the Switch again, but I can feel his agitation radiating off him in waves. It’s only a matter of time before it boils over again.
Sure enough, after coming third in a race, he throws another tantrum, muttering and cursing loudly under his breath.
“Timmy,please!” I snap, my voice breaking. “I can’t handle constant narration about a film when I’m reading, and I can’t handle tantrums over video games while I’m writing.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes cold and accusing. “You’re awful, Margaux. You know that? Justawful.”