Timmy seems to realize he’s not impressing her, and for once he shuts up.
I rush past him and into the apartment, my heart pounding. The first thing I do is find Sabre. He’s lounging on the bed, looking unbothered. Relief floods through me as I scoop him up, burying my face in his soft fur.
I grab a couple of changes of clothes, my fanny pack, medication, and my computer. I pause, trying to think through what else I’ll need. The adrenaline coursing through me makes it hard to focus.
One of the panes from the jalousie windows is smashed, shards of glass scattered on the ground.Typical.Timmy must have locked himself out when he was drunk and forgotten the code to the door. But everything else seems untouched.
I glance around, feeling flustered.
“It’s okay,” the officer says gently, noticing my panic. “Take your time.”
I nod, exhaling shakily. “I need my chargers,” I mutter, grabbing them from the desk.
Finally, I’m ready.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Oh,” I reply. “Well, I guess I’ll get a hotel downtown until I’m allowed to come back.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I mean, what are you going to do about… that?” She tilts her head toward Timmy, just out of earshot, her words a subtle nudge.
“I’m not sure yet,” I reply honestly. “But I’m going to figure it out.”
She gives a small nod, her expression neutral.
I have a feeling she’s seen this all before.
I drive Sabre and myself to a hotel downtown, our temporary haven for a few days. In a small act of—I don’t know, self-care, defiance, all of the above—I pick the hotel that houses Dock Bar. One of the only places I still consider a refuge, that Timmy hasn’t managed to take from me.
When we arrive in the hotel room, Sabre perks up immediately, conducting a thorough inspection of the room. Once satisfied, he leaps onto the bed and sprawls across the comforter, purring like he owns the place.
At least one of us is having a good time.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m alone with my thoughts.
Glancing at my phone, I notice that, for once, Timmy hasn’t turned off his location. I find myself compulsively tracking his movements.
On Monday, he spends hours at the meth tents before returning home for the evening.
Tuesday, he’s at the tents again by 9AM, then back at the apartment complex, ostensibly working for a couple of hours. After lunch, he’s back at the tents, then the beach, then the 7-Eleven where the local unhoused population congregates.
This particular 7-Eleven isn’t just a convenience store—it’s a dead end, a magnet for panhandlers and addicts. Timmy, with a roof over his head, chooses to linger here like he belongs.
By 430PM, he’s home again—for all of three hours—before heading back to the beach and the 7-Eleven.
His routine is baffling, a chaotic dance of aimlessness.
Integrity is what you do when no one’s watching, and Timmy’s true colors are blindingly clear.
Without Timmy’s constant presence, I’m actually productive. I write, uninterrupted, and it feels incredible to be spared from his constant inane chatter.
The hotel room and the bar downstairs—ironically the place we first met in person, although I still consider it to bemyspace—become my sanctuaries, places where I can focus and breathe.
It’s funny how much more I can get done when I’m not constantly being berated, nitpicked, insulted and abused.
Still, my mind circles back to him.
Every time I start to see the truth—that I need to leave, that things will never change—he does something to reel me back in, to give me just enough hope to want to give him one more chance.