Me:
Yep. A waste of noise.
I can only imagine he is passed out in the park or has possibly been stabbed. But I refuse to go looking for him in the dark this time. It’s dangerous around here.
If he isn’t back when it’s light, I will maybe drive down the street.
Alice:
Yeah, do not go out. It seems like a bad place.
Me:
Like I don’t need to be in a relationship with someone who puts himself or me in that position.
Alice:
Not at all.
You deserve someone who will be kind and make you feel safe.
Me:
Totally.
I’d call his dad, but I don’t see the point at this juncture.
An hour later, Timmy arrives back at the apartment, giddy with excitement.
His board shorts are wet.
“Oh my gosh, that was so much fun! I just went night diving with some people I met on the beach.”
“Fuck you, Timmy,” I snap. “Get your shit out of the apartment in the morning. I’m done with you.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave first thing.”
THE NEXT MORNING
Timmy wakes up and acts like nothing is wrong. “Can you drive me to therapy, babe?” he asks.
I sigh. Maybe therapy can fix him, but I don’t have high hopes.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m still very upset with you. Make sure you talk to your therapist about what happened last night.”
“I will,” he says.
After his therapy session, he’s very contrite.
“Did you talk to your therapist about going over to the tents?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She said that it wasn’t good or okay.”
I nod. “And?”
“My behavior is completely inappropriate and I have a bad drinking problem, and my actions were really fucked up. I’m really, really sorry, Marg. I’ll do better. I promise.”
I sigh. Words are cheap, and with Timmy I’m beginning to learn they carry very little weight.