The words feel like a promise I know he can’t keep, but for a moment, I let myself pretend.
I let myself believe.
The illusion shatters the day after Christmas.
I’m consumed with dread over Darren’s upcoming memorial. Timmy’s grief isn’t just sorrow—it’s a volatile cocktail of anger, guilt, and denial. Every outburst, every erratic action feels like a storm brewing on the horizon.
The anxiety leaves me unable to eat. Every time I try, I feel my stomach clench. Most of the time, I end up vomiting.
Timmy, meanwhile, grows increasingly erratic. He continues slamming doors and counters, his frustration bubbling over at the smallest provocation. “Darren was the best guy I ever knew,” he says repeatedly, ignoring the reality of their broken friendship.
He spirals into the myth of Darren, each retelling of their bond painting a rosier picture. It’s as if his grief demands perfection, as if any acknowledgment of Darren’s flaws would make the loss too unbearable.
My body is weak from days of anxiety and little nourishment.
My mind is exhausted from navigating Timmy’s emotional landmines.
And I know the worst is still to come.
CHAPTER 75
SAINT DARREN THE BENEVOLENT COKE DEALER
DEX
The sun rises over Sunset Cay, but there’s no warmth in its glow, no reprieve in its light. I sit in my dimly lit apartment, staring at the screen showing Margaux’s living room.
My jaw tightens as I watch her and Timmy’s latest interaction play out.
FUCK.
His grief over Darren’s death is a living thing, twisting and thrashing like a wounded animal, and Margaux—damn her big heart—is letting it wrap its claws around her.
What are the fucking chances his estranged BFF would go and die right now?
She was ready to leave.
I could feel it, even from here.
She’d made peace with the idea of walking away, of saving herself.
But now, Timmy’s grief has become the perfect trap, yanking her back into his orbit just when she was on the verge of breaking free.
I watch as Timmy clings to her, his face a mask of anguish. The words spilling from his mouth are desperate, pleading. “Ineedyou, Margaux. I can’t do this without you.” His voice cracks, and tears stream down his face. It’s a masterclass in manipulation, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.
Her shoulders slump under the weight of his pain, and I can see the internal struggle in her eyes. She’s torn between her own survival and the relentless pull of her compassion.
And I can’t blame her. It’s hard to walk away from someone who looks at you like you’re their only lifeline, even when that lifeline has been draggingyouunderwater for months.
But Timmy’s grief isn’t the kind that heals. It’s toxic, corrosive, and it’s already starting to eat away at her.
Later, I switch to the kitchen feed and watch as Margaux tries to find a moment of peace. She’s preparing a simple meal, her movements deliberate but sluggish. Her shoulders are tense, her jaw tight. She’s exhausted in every sense of the word.
Timmy stomps into the room, slamming a pan down on the counter with enough force to rattle the stove. “God, why do I have to be here?” he snarls. His tone drips with scorn, and it’s clear he’s not talking about the apartment.
Margaux freezes, the knife in her hand hovering over a cutting board. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t respond. I can almost feel her trying to will herself invisible. But he’s not done.
My breath comes faster, anger building in my chest like a storm.