“Timmy, stop,” I plead, my voice weary.
“You shouldn’t even be here given there’s a pending court case. I think you should be arrested for being around me,” he continues, his words slurred yet still sanctimonious.
I ignore him, my patience having worn thin long ago.
I prefer my drama to come from the shows I watch rather than my own home.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice breaking.
He smirks. “Because I can.”
I retreat to my laptop, determined not to engage further.
“I want to ask the police how you could possibly be here right now.”
Sighing, I look up. “Timmy, why are you being like this?” I plead. “You promised you’d drop the charges like I dropped the ones against you.”
He shrugs. “I talked to someone about you and our situation,” he says, cryptically. “I can still make the charges against you. I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to stop.:
He picks up a large chef’s knife and kitchen scissors and stabs them both into the wooden chopping board.
Then he grabs a pair of scissors and walks to the TV. With one swift motion, he cuts the power cord. The screen flickers to black.
Great. Oh well, I guess I’ll just watch the show on my laptop.
“I have a message drafted to 911,” he announces, holding up his phone. “It says you hit me three times, and that you keep trying to break into the back room to be even more abusive. You’d better be careful.”
I stare at him, numb.
The fight in me is gone.
And for the first time, I realize I’m not scared anymore.
I’m just done.
And I no longer care what happens.
CHAPTER 77
CONSISTENTLY INCONSISTENT
MARGAUX
It’s late January, and I finally catch Covid for the first time.
I’ve managed to dodge it for years, thanks to a combination of germophobia, obsessive hand-sanitizing, and the luxury of remote work during the height of the pandemic. Even when my ex brought Covid home after a business trip, I made him isolate in the bedroom, delivering meals to the door like room service, and somehow escaped infection.
This time, though, I wasn’t so lucky.
Sure, I could have caught it at the grocery store, but Occam’s razor leads me to the more obvious culprit—Timmy.
His visits to the beachside tents—where he shares drinks, joints, and cigarettes with the local misfits and addicts—are a glaring vector of exposure. The thought of what he might be putting his mouth on over there makes my stomach churn.
“I’ve avoided Covid for three years,” I snap, furious. “And because you’re irresponsible, I finally get it?”
His deflection is immediate. “You probably got it at the grocery store. I didn’t give it to you.”
I’m outraged by his blasé response. “Timmy, you’re literally putting yourmouthon things that have been passed around by god knows who. And then you come home, breathe on me, kiss me…”