“Yep!” I force my voice to match hers. “Everything’s great! Thank you for checking in. I’ll make the appointment soon.”
“Good. Let me know if you need anything.”
She’s so kind. Too kind.
And I feel like a fraud.
But I make the appointment, determined to follow through.
The gym orientation is… surprisingly enjoyable.
An enthusiastic lady teaches me and a group of senior citizens how to use each piece of equipment one by one. There’s laughter, encouragement, and no pressure. It’s a world away from the tension of my daily life.
For an hour, I feel human again. The kindness of strangers and the simple act of moving my body give me a fleeting sense of normalcy.
Afterward, I text Timmy a photo of the menu from the health center’s restaurant.
“I can bring you lunch if you want!” I call him. “Just let me know what you want!”
“Ummmm…. ahhhh.... ummmmm… give me a minute,” he stammers.
“Okay,” I say, smiling through the phone.
“Ummmmm….ahhh….ahhhhh…”
There are only five items on the menu. What’s taking him so long? Has he forgotten how to read?
“Have you decided yet?” I ask gently. I’m at the front of the line by now, and people behind me are growing impatient.
“Don’t fucking rush me, Margaux!” he snaps. “Fuck! You’re such a fucking rusher. Like, give me a chance to read the fucking thing. You know what? Don’t get me fucking anything.”
His anger slices through me, unraveling the calm I’d worked so hard to achieve.
What was meant to be a nice gesture has turned into another argument, another source of anxiety.
I order something I know he’ll like anyway, to avoid another fight when I get home. There’s no winning with him.
A FEW DAYS LATER
Days later, the rage returns, this time laced with something darker.
I text Timmy’s dad, Phil.
Me:
He’s threatening to blow up fireworks between my eyes.
I’m desperate. Reaching out feels futile, but I don’t know what else to do.
The idea of having my face blown apart by a festival ball has planted itself in my mind, an absurd but terrifying seed.
Timmy keeps talking. “You know, I could do it, and they’d never find me,” he says, his voice almost conversational. “It’d be like—boom—and you’d be gone. Just like that.”
I know his threats are partly about control, partly for show. But they’re still threats. And there’s always the lingering question:What if?
Phil doesn’t respond.
Of course not.