I sit on the bed, my body trembling with a mix of rage, pain, and disbelief. The absurdity of it all—the boiling water, the laughter, the gaslighting—feels like a twisted fever dream. This is my life now—absurd, horrifying, and teetering on the edge of chaos.
If this isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.
CHAPTER 58
MY HEAD KNOWS BUT MY HEART HASN'T CAUGHT UP YET
MARGAUX
The next morning, Timmy is still drunk. His face is flushed, his eyes bloodshot, but it’s his smirk that sets my blood boiling.
I confront him, the memory of the boiling water still fresh, the sting on my skin a constant reminder of his actions.
“You poured boiling water on me,” I say, my voice steady but laced with simmering anger. “It’s not okay.”
He rolls his eyes, as if I’ve accused him of something ridiculous. “I didn’t do that,” he scoffs. “You’re making that up.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “No, you did it. I even messaged Alice right after because I couldn’t believe it.”
He shrugs, his expression bored. “You were being a bitch,” he mutters. “You probably deserved it.”
“You weren’t even mad when you did it, Timmy,” I snap. “You thought it was hilarious. You were laughing.”
“Didn’t happen,” he says flatly, refusing to meet my gaze. He grabs his keys and storms out of the room, leaving me in stunned silence.
I have to get out of here, I think to myself.None of this is okay.
The hotel room feels suffocating. The hum of traffic outside is the only sound, but it’s deafening in its banality. I can’t stay here.
I grab the truck keys and drive home, the familiar roads blurring as my thoughts race.
My phone buzzes.
Timmy:
Where are you?
Me:
Home.
Almost immediately, my phone rings.
“You went all the way home without me?” he demands, his voice slurring, his tone hurt. “You didn’t take me with you?”
“I didn’t know where you were,” I sigh. “You ran off again, Timmy. After promising you wouldn’t.”
“Can you please come and get me?” he begs. “I’m at the beach.”
I rub my temples. “Can’t you get an Uber?”
“I don’t have any money,” he says, his voice dripping with self-pity. “I can’t believe you left me all the way out here by myself.”
“You sound drunk,” I reply, my patience wearing thin. “And there was no alcohol left in the hotel room. Where did you get it from?”
“Dad sent me money for alcohol,” he admits, as if it’s perfectly reasonable.
I blink. “Hewhat? Why would he do that?” It doesn’t sound accurate, and if he did, that would be mega-fucked up.