My friend Jo.As in Josephine, a woman.Who lives on the other side of the country.
I resist the urge to throw my phone at his head. “In what world would she be a man? And why would you think that?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I guess I misread something she’d said earlier in your conversation.”
I sigh. “Well, what you sent is completely inappropriate. Please stop contacting people pretending to be me, or from my phone, without my permission. Please stop saying the n word. You’ve promised to stop saying it. Please don’t call my friends cunts. Please just stop.”
“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up in surrender. “I was just upset, and my feelings were hurt, and I thought you were cheating on me.”
My mouth opens involuntarily. “How could I cheat on you injail?”
He looks down. “Well, I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Please, just stay away from my things,” I plead. “Like I said, I spoke to my lawyer and what you did is a felony. So I strongly suggest that you stop it immediately.”
He flinches again at the word ‘felony’. “Okay, yeah, I guess I really fucked up, doing that.” He looks scared. “Please don’t get me in trouble.Please.I really don’t want to go to prison.”
I shrug. “Stop doing dumb shit, then.”
He nods. “Okay. I really am sorry.”
He pulls me into a hug, and this time it’s me who flinches.
I let him hug me, but I can’t stomach returning his embrace. I’m happy to be back at home, but I’m still so angry he put me in jail.
It was traumatic, and the whole thing was just insane.
Finding out he’s fractured my skull has reopened old emotional wounds related tothatattack.
Plus, he tried to strangle me.
He thought he’d killed me.Checked myfucking pulse.
And now it’s all about a pity party for Timmy.
The audacity.
CHAPTER 73
BIG SIS MIC DROP
MARGAUX
A FEW DAYS LATER
Isit at my desk, laptop open, staring at the unopened email from my sister, Amanda. The subject line reads, ‘To My Sister.’
I’ve been keeping her in the loop as best as I can—occasionally talking to her on the phone when Timmy’s having a particularly volatile day.
Amanda’s been through enough in her life to understand what’s happening, even though I’ve spared her the grittiest details.
But today, the bold subject line feels heavier than usual.
I finally click the email open, but the words blur together on the screen. One phrase jumps out like a red flag slapping me in the face:your funeral.
I slam the laptop shut.
I can’t. I just can’t.