December arrives, but I’m not in a holiday mood.
The weather in Sunset Cay hasn’t changed much—it’s still humid and sticky, like a warm, oppressive blanket I can’t shake off. The sun sets a little earlier now, but other than that, it’s business as usual: tropical vibes on the outside, chaos on the inside.
Things haven’t been awful lately, but they haven’t been anywhere near good, either. I’ve been walking on eggshells, trying to keep Timmy calm enough that I can focus on my books.
Timmy’s tantrums have become routine, their predictability as frustrating as their frequency. Each one derails my writing for days, and I can’t keep letting that happen. But there’s a small, dim light at the end of this tunnel—he managed to land a gig helping a condo renovator onsite. It’s only twenty hours a week, but it gets him out of the apartment, giving me just enough breathing room to focus on my books.
Still, living with him feels like navigating a minefield. He’s incapable of accepting even the gentlest feedback. “You’re so mean to me,” he whines whenever I bring up anything remotelyconstructive. And yet, he feels entitled to criticize me over the smallest things, like the way I put egg shells or citrus peels in the garbage disposal, or how I arrange the shower curtain.
I try to reason with him, my tone steady but strained. “I need to be able to talk to you about how I’m feeling without you flipping out or acting like you’re being attacked. I feel like that’s a basic requirement for a relationship. I only bring up things that really matter.”
He frowns, but doesn’t respond.
Instead, he pivots to what he thinks is a fun story.
“Oh my god, I was at work earlier and Dennis was telling me this story about how he was meant to be dying of cancer,” he grins. “So he went overseas and told all these women about how he was dying. Dude got choke pussy because of it.”
I scrunch up my face. “Ew, that’s disgusting. Please tell me that’s not how you speak with your workmates about women. And the fact you sound so excited about this upsets me.”
A shadow passes across his face. “Fuck you, Margaux. You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You write books about girls fucking four guys at once.”
“They’rebooks,” I snap. “You’re talking about your real-life coworker deceiving women for pity sex.”
“Your books are about people beingwhores,” he spits, venom dripping from every word.
“Excuse me? Grow the fuck up,” I reply.
“All you do is tell me mean things,” he pouts, his voice dipping into that insufferable victim tone.
“Maybe because you need to hear them,” I reply coldly. “You need to change your atrocious behavior. You’re a grown man acting like a spoiled child.Fix it.”
He sighs dramatically, his demeanor softening as if to reel me back in. “I’m sorry. Can we reset? Can I put your drums together for you?”
I’m too drained to argue. “Fine. Whatever.”
Later in the Day
Alice intuitively reaches out, her message lighting up my phone like a rescue flare:
Alice:
What’s going on, friend?
Me:
Douchebaggery.
Alice:
What happened?
Me:
Just the usual.
Alice:
Has he touched you lately?