As I hit send, I feel the weight of my reality pressing down again. But at the same time, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. I don’t know what’s coming next, but for now, I know I’m not alone.
For the first time in a long time, there’s a flicker of what feels like hope. I have no idea what Montana will bring, but at least I know Alice is only a message away.
CHAPTER 11
THE PRICE OF PEACE AND STOP COOKING ME FUCKING STEAK FOR BREAKFAST
MARGAUX
September has arrived, and with it comes a stifling monotony that settles over every day like a heavy fog. My life feels like a looped movie with no plot twists. Wake up early, work while Timmy sleeps in—sometimes until noon or later. Then he wakes up, and the routine truly begins.
Timmy’s ‘mornings’ are focused on one thing—an elaborate breakfast. He knows I don’t typically eat breakfast, but he insists on making it for me anyway. Watching him cook should feel endearing, but instead, it feels like an act of control.
Once he’s done, he observes me like a hawk as I sit across from him, waiting for me to eat. I’m not hungry, and I feel like I’m being force-fed, but the pressure in his gaze makes refusal seem like a dangerous choice. So I eat, bite by reluctant bite, swallowing not just the food but the growing resentment I feel every morning while he snores beside me as I write.
Then, as I start to work again, his focus shifts to the TV. When he was in jail, one of his cellmates—an advocate who supports criminals getting off heroin, who was arrested for stealing a scooter—had told him that if he got a Firestick,he could use an app to watch pirated movies. Of course, he pressured me into buying him the Firestick, and he’s been watching anything he can get his hands on that he hasn’t already seen.
He spends hours lost in the flickering glow of the screen, his attention consumed by action sequences and dialogue I can’t bring myself to care about.
Meanwhile, I stare at my laptop, trying to write and keep my author business afloat. The words come, slowly, choked by the tension that has become a permanent fixture in our home.
In the afternoons, the restlessness sets in. Timmy gets antsy and starts talking incessantly about smoking and drinking. His voice, once charming and animated, grates against my nerves as he works himself up.
Soon enough, he’s pouring a drink, and I know the rest of the day will be lost to his spiral—more movies, more drinking, and a stubborn refusal to sleep until exhaustion forces him to.
I had envisioned this place as a paradise, but this was not it.
The beauty just outside these suffocating walls seems like a cruel joke.
But hey, at least we’re not at Matty’s anymore, and I am managing to get some books written.
I’m starting to scream back at him more and more. To say things that have never crossed my mind in any prior relationship. Horrible things. Swear words. Insults. And, most often, I still call him a loser. Because I’ll reach the point I get so frustrated about his complete lack of work ethic, his sleeping in, his mooching, his constant demands and expectations—the word seems accurate. Where is the lie?
But then it feels like I’m just as bad as he is. And I feel guilty and ashamed. Even though he starts every single argument. Even though he picks and picks and picks at me during every waking hour. Even though he physically destroys items aroundthe house on a regular basis. Even though he’s fractured my skull. But the fact I can’t just stay calm and serene and be the perfect little polite fiancée, I feel like I’m as much to blame.
Even though if I was there with anyone else, these situations wouldn’t arise. It’s him. He’s the common denominator.
I know that, intuitively, and based on hard evidence like his criminal record, but there’s a dissonance where I wonder what I could have done differently to have avoided yet another Timmy drama.
And when I haven’t been drinking, I’m very, very good at anticipating emotions and noticing very subtle nuances in body language. De-escalation is my strength.
But, when emboldened by alcohol, I get a little more sassy. A little more empowered to say what’s on my mind. To bring up things that we really should have been talking about as a couple, but that I’ve avoided because I knew they’d result in him automatically shutting me down and using them as ammunition against me later.
“Why didn’t you mention soap at the store?” I ask, when we get back from grocery shopping and he immediately mentions we’re out.
“You told me I’m always asking for things,” he sulks. “So I decided I shouldn’t ask you.”
“It’s a necessity, not a nice-to-have. That’s different.”
I find myself writing little notes, jotting down my thoughts that I store on my Notes app like contraband.
I am in love with this soul
Who is currently inside this giant human frame
Who sometimes hurts me.
Because I see what is inside. But I feel dumb in the meantime.