MARGAUX
Infuriated, confused, and exhausted, my logic goes south.
I shove on my flip-flops and storm out of the apartment, past the security shack, and toward the beach. The night air is thick with humidity, and the distant sound of crashing waves does nothing to soothe my nerves.
When I get there, I spot him immediately. Timmy sits at a picnic bench surrounded by a group of people who live in the nearby tents. He’s wearingmyhat—the one my sister just sent me all the way from New Zealand. The one that actually means something to me.
The audacity.
He sees me approaching and grins, as if this is some big joke.
I force a smile at the others and give them a small wave. “Hi,” I say politely, masking the fury simmering just beneath the surface. Some of them wave back, oblivious to the storm brewing.
“Hey, babe,” he says casually. “We’re just hanging out, enjoying the night.” He turns to his so-called friends. “Told you she’d come find me.”
My anger ignites.
Timmy gets up, walking toward me, but I’m already too far gone
Targeting the brim, I smack the hat off his head.“Fuck off!”I snap, my voice cutting through the quiet night.
The group falls silent, the tension thick as I glare at Timmy. My fingers are trembling with rage—not just because of the hat, but because of everything. The danger he’s put me in, the absolute disregard for my feelings, and the sheer idiocy of sitting at a picnic table with strangers at 3AM like it’s happy hour.
He looks stunned for a moment, and then his expression shifts to one of indifference, like he’s already dismissing my outburst.
I don’t wait for him to speak. I turn on my heel and storm back toward the apartment, my heart pounding in my chest.
As I walk, I dial Phil’s number to vent and let him know what his son is up to.
“Hello?” his mother’s voice answers, soft and groggy.
“He’s out at the meth tents at three in the morning,” I say, my words sharp and clipped.
“Oh…” She pauses. “That’s no good. He needs to grow up. Here, I’ll put Phil on.”
Before I can respond, a voice calls out from behind me. One of the men from the picnic bench is pedaling toward me on a bike.
“He’s been sitting with us, telling us how you’re his rock,” the man says, as if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
I stop and turn to face him. “Well, if I’m his fucking rock, why is he out here at 3AM, sitting at a park bench with strangers instead of being home?” My tone drips with sarcasm and frustration.
“Yeah, you’re right,” the man replies. “If I were with you, I would never leave you alone in the middle of the night. Yourman should be spending time with you, not us. I would never treat you that way.”
“Exactly,” I snap, already exhausted by this unsolicited commentary.
The man circles his bike around me. “I have the day off, by the way,” he adds.
“Good for you,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and walking faster.
By now, Phil is on the line. “Did you hear that?” I ask.
“I did. What’s going on?” he asks, his voice steady.
I take a deep breath and explain everything—the missing hours, the picnic bench, the company he’s keeping.
“That’s no good,” Phil replies, his disappointment evident. “Put him on the phone.”
“No, I walked away,” I explain. “This is incredibly unsafe, and I’m going back to the apartment. I just wanted you to know what your son is doing, and that he’s putting himself in danger.”