Then she adds something unexpected—“I’m also giving you a referral to the gym here at the center. It’s affordable, and it’s a great way to meet people. I go there myself. It might help to get out and broaden your connections around here.”
I nod again, catching the subtext. She’s nudging me—offering a lifeline to something beyond Timmy. Sure, I can work on my cardiovascular health and get back to the ripped, shredded creature I was when I first moved here. But she also knows I need distance, perspective, something to remind me of my own strength. She’s not pushy, but I can tell she’s rooting for me.
As I leave, she makes sure the local domestic violence shelter’s number is programmed into my phone. “Just in case,” she says.
For the first time in a long while, I feel like someone in this town is truly on my side.
A few days later, Timmy is in one of his moods again. He’s storming in and out of the apartment, retreating to the tents to drink and smoke. Each time he comes back, he’s angrier and more emboldened—resentful, seething with accusations he hurls my way.
I’m exhausted. His behavior chips away at my already fragile sanity.
The antidepressants are new, and while they’re supposed to stabilize me, they’ve left me feeling off. I’m on edge, a little morehyper and irritated than usual, my patience thin. I take a swig of whiskey to blunt the edges, but it only seems to blur the lines between rationality and impulsiveness.
How dare he?How dare he run off, leaving me here to stew in this boiling pit of resentment? How dare he expect me to carry the weight of everything—our finances, our home, our relationship—while he indulges his whims like a rageful toddler?
I want to storm down to the tents and confront Timmy, and every time I’m about to, he comes back into the apartment and then leaves again.
I sit for a while, feeling a bit funny as the whiskey starts to numb me, to blur the edges a little. It makes him seem less scary, like I’m watching him from outside my body.
Each time he returns, his voice sounds more hollow.
He leaves, comes back again, leaves again.
My mind races, spinning into a storm of anger and desperation. I can’t stay here, pacing, helpless
I need to get him.
Bring him home.
Fix this, somehow.
I have to get him to come home.
It’s dangerous out there.
My body is on a different plane from my brain.
How dare he? I have to get him, for his own good.
And because I’m so angry, soveryangry.
I grab the truck keys and head to the parking garage. The air feels heavy, pressing down on my chest as I start the engine.
I drive through the dimly lit streets, scanning for any sign of Timmy.
I have to get him. None of this is okay. This isn’t the life I want.
At the 7-Eleven, a man waves me over. He’s holding a can of Rolling Rock in one hand, a football tucked under his arm. Hisdisheveled appearance and the smell of stale beer that clings to him make me hesitate.
But desperation overrides my caution. “Can you help me find Timmy?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, climbing into the passenger seat.
I start driving, hoping he might point me in the right direction. But instead of being helpful, he leans closer. “Pull over here,” he says.
I think he’s ready to get out, but then he grabs me, crushing his lips against mine. His breath reeks of alcohol, and I recoil, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I take another swig of whiskey, hoping it will steady me.