Part of me hesitates—this is the man who’s hurt me in ways I’m still untangling. But in this moment, he’s raw and human, and I can’t turn away.
My escape plans are forgotten. For now, at least.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
I’d only met Darren a couple of times, and I know he wasn’t the most upstanding guy. But I know he was important to Timmy, and therefore, he was important to me.
But I’m also instantly on edge, even more than has become standard. There’s an automatic pit in my stomach that doesn’t stem from grief over Darren’s death.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Timmy, it’s that he doesn’t deal with evenlittlethings well. And this is no little thing—to him, it’s one of the pivotal moments of his life.
A best friend,dead.
And he’s going to act out.
And I’m going to be the one who bears the brunt of his grief.
Over the next few days, the fallout begins.
Timmy spends hours replaying memories of Darren, glorifying him as if their friendship had never fractured. It doesn’t matter that they hadn’t spoken in months or that their last interaction ended in a screaming match. In Timmy’s mind, Saint Darren is untouchable now. Canonized by death. Even Darren himself would say Timmy is laying it on a bit thick with the way he’s talking about him.
Every day, he cries and tells me the same stories. The good times. The bad times. The times that have been warped by his grief.
I try to be patient. I try to support him, even though a voice inside me warns that this is a recipe for disaster.
But his grief doesn’t settle into sorrow or even self-pity. It curdles into something darker—resentment. And I’m his lightning rod.
The first cracks show when I’m in the kitchen, making a snack and trying to give him space to process. I have a TV show playing in the background. Without warning, Timmy slams a pan down on the counter so hard it rattles the stove. “God, whydo I have to be here?” he snarls, his eyes cold. “I’d rather be at work than stuck here withyou.”
I blink, unsure if I’ve misheard. But his tone is unmistakable—sharp, cutting, and full of contempt.
Then he crosses the room, turning off the TV with a deliberate click. “Why do you even bother staying?” he spits. “What’s the point ofyou?”
My gaze shifts to the knife in my hand, and for a moment—just a split second—I think about what it would feel like to plunge the sharp metal deep into Timmy, the look of shock on his face as he bled out. But just as quickly, the thought floats away.
Instead, I just don’t respond. What’s the point? He doesn’t want an answer, just a target.
Another time, he tries to shove piping-hot bacon in my face. “Here, eat this,” he orders, his tone suggesting that eating this strip of bacon is somehow a test of loyalty or affection.
“No thank you,” I say, my stomach churning from stress.
He kicks his baby shark toy at me, his face a mask of irritation.
Two minutes later, he offers me a burrito, as if this small act of generosity will erase the venom that preceded it.
When I decline, his irritation boils over. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, storming into the other room.
I stand frozen in the kitchen, the words he doesn’t say louder than the ones he does. It’s not just anger at Darren’s death.
It’s anger thatI’mstill here.
Against all odds, Christmas Day is peaceful. Almost… enjoyable.
We cook a feast together—scallops, lamb racks, and pavlova topped with whipped cream and fresh fruit. We laugh at cheesy Christmas movies and spend time swimming in the ocean. For a few precious hours, it feels like the life we once dreamed of building together.
He gives me a Christmas card. Inside, he’s written a brief note:
I will be a good boy for you.