“I’m just really freaking out about maybe having to go to jail on Monday and I acted out. I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know how long I’m going to have to go for. It’s just really messing with my head.”
I get it to a point, but there’s always some reason Timmy will use it as an excuse to act out.
“Let’s go to Costco,” he says. “It’s food stamp day. Let’s fill up the fridge with nice stuff.”
So I drive us to Costco and we get all of our favorite things, filling the cart to the brim and then returning home where Timmy expertly Tetrises the groceries into the fridge and freezer. “We did real good!” he beams.
And so I ride another temporary Timmy high.
Monday arrives, and we drive to the courthouse in silence. Timmy is jittery, fidgeting with his phone and tapping his foot incessantly. He’s terrified of going to jail, and for once, I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
As much as he’s made my life miserable, the idea of him locked up is hard to stomach.
When he emerges from the courthouse an hour later, his face is lit with relief. “No jail time!” he exclaims, practically skipping toward the truck. “Just a fine!”
I force a smile. “That’s good.” I’m happy for him, but also slightly disappointed that I won’t have any time away from him to process everything.
“It’s amazing!” he beams. “This is a sign, Margaux—a sign that things are going to get better.”
But deep down, I know better. This isn’t a sign of improvement. It’s a sign that he’ll never take accountability. That he’ll keep pushing boundaries, testing limits, and skating by without consequences.
He thinks he can get away with literally anything.
And I know, for that, I’m partially to blame.
As we drive home, Timmy chats about his plans for the future. How he’s going to ‘get his shit together,’ start making art again, and be the man I deserve.
But I’ve heard it all before.
And as I watch the Sunset Cay skyline blur past, I wonder how many more chances I’ll let him burn through before I finally stop letting him drag me down.
CHAPTER 62
DON'T F*CK WITH HER CAT
DEX
The Sunset Cay feed hums with quiet chaos, the static hum of Margaux’s life playing out in real time. From the corner camera in the apartment, I watch her sitting on the bed, curled up with Sabre. She’s scrolling through her phone like it’s a magic eight ball that might give her answers she already knows but can’t accept.
Her movements are erratic—sharp swipes, constant unlocking and locking of the screen. Sabre shifts, stretching his legs against her lap, his little face tilted up as if to comfort her. She doesn’t notice.
Timmy’s nowhere to be seen, but I know where he is. He’s at the meth tents again. The phone tracker, the cameras, even a couple of social media posts from locals where my facial recognition software has picked him up in the background of their reels—it’s all confirmed.
What I wouldn’t give to put a permanent end to this circus.
Her texts to Alice flash up on my laptop screen. I should feel guilty for reading them, but guilt is a luxury I don’t indulge in anymore. She’s telling Alice about Timmy pouring boiling hotramen water on her, and Alice—understandably—responds in shock, urging her to leave.
Margaux types back something about excuses and therapy, about how maybe Timmy’s ‘scared of his sentencing’. It’s classic Margaux—rationalizing his behavior even when it’s outright malicious. She’s smart, she knows better, but there’s something deep inside her, some crack that keeps her tethered to him.
I rub my jaw, my teeth grinding. It’s like watching someone drowning but refusing to grab the life raft because they think they deserve the waves.
From the back camera feed, I see Timmy stumble into the room, drunk or high—probably both. He’s slurring something about cigarettes, his wet board shorts leaving a trail on the tile floor.
Margaux glares at him but doesn’t say a word. I can see it in her face—she’s exhausted, completely worn down by his antics. Sabre jumps off her lap, trotting to the kitchen, where he stares up at Timmy, his ears pinned back.
If I didn’t already hate the guy, his treatment of Sabre would be enough—manipulating him with showers of affection and treats one minute, putting him in danger the next.
Margaux’s texts from earlier play in my head like a haunting refrain—he tried to take Sabre to the meth tents at 2AM.