“Listen, Margaux... I could tell from the moment I watched the video footage that you’re a good person,” he continues. “But you need to ask yourself—is this the life you want, and is Timmy the kind of person you want to be around? Because the way this is heading... it doesn’t look good, and may not end well for you.”
I nod, but the action feels hollow.
I absorb his words as if I’m a distant bystander, trying to focus on the legal logistics rather than the emotional implications.
Timmy’s the exception, not the norm. He wants to do better. Tobebetter.
Timmy promised he’d drop the charges. Once that’s done, everything will go back to normal—no more court dates, no more cops, no more tension.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Maybe that’s the cure for all this.
I’m so glad I dropped the charges against him, and that he’s going to do the same for me.
Sure, mine against him were for something thatactuallyhappened, while his against me were completely bogus, but it feels like he’s leveling the score by doing this.
Like a show of solidarity—that we’re a team who has each other’s backs.
But then Peter shows me the forms Timmy filled out. My heart sinks as I read the accusations—strangulation, stalking, controlling behavior.
“He told the policeIstrangledhim?” I gasp, incredulous. “And that Istalkhim?”
Peter nods grimly. “He took things that you’ve described him doing to you, and flipped them around to make it look like you’re the aggressor.”
Fury bubbles beneath my skin.
On the drive home, I confront Timmy.
“You told the police that Istrangledyou, and that Iattackedyou withweapons?” I question him, describing details he included in the printed statement. “That I stalk you around, trying to control you?”
Timmy doesn’t respond.
“Youliedto thepolice, Timmy.” My voice cracks. “These are all thingsyou’vedone tome, that I’veneverdone toyou.”
Timmy sits in the passenger seat, his expression a mix of guilt and defiance. “I didn’t say that,” he mutters. “The cop wrote it all down for me.”
I shake my head. “Timmy, I’ve seen the footage of you filling the paperwork out,” I snap. “The cop didn’t write a word of it.Youdid.”
He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “Oh, well… I had to make it sound good. So I took the truth and added a little.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Youlied to the policeand said Icommitted crimes I didn’t commit. Do you have any idea howseriousthat is?”
“Well, you upset me. And you were going to call the cops on me and I didn’t want to go to jail,” he says simply, as if that justifies everything.
“And it’s okay thatIhad to?” My voice rises, a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You fabricated a story about me pulling your hair so I would go to jail instead of you?”
He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah. Sorry. I panicked.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, sinking further into the driver’s seat. “You have no problem attacking me, threatening to kill me, and giving me afuckingskull fracture. And when I dropped the charges, I thought maybe you’d have the decency to do the same. But instead, you doubled down on your lies.”
“Yeah, sorry. Let’s just try to move forward,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. His touch feels heavy, suffocating. “I’ll go downtown and sign the same form you did. I promise.”
I flinch. “You’re unbelievable.”
A FEW NIGHTS LATER
“I wanna press charges on you more and more,” he sneers, standing in front of the TV screen to block my view.