“Let me tell you something,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “Therapistsdodiscuss anonymized client situations with colleagues for educational purposes, but I would giveanythingto not have to talk about Timmy with you anymore.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she says. “You have so much trauma to unpack, Margaux. Timmy is just an acute symptom. He’s this roadblock standing in the way of us dealing withyourlife. The things that brought you here before him.”
It’s such a jarring truth that I don’t know how to respond.
“You are a badass,” she says suddenly, catching me off guard.
I blink. “What?”
“It’s true, and I want you to remember that. We need to work on your self-esteem, but look at you. You moved here all by yourself. You’ve built a career as a romance author. You’ve created opportunities for yourself out of nothing. Don’t let anyone—includingyourself—forget who you are, no matter what anyone else says.”
Her words hit me harder than I expect, and I hold back tears. It’s been so long since anyone but Timmy has complimented me, and these days his compliments are always laced with criticism, like candy coated in poison.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight.
“Just be safe,” she says, her tone soft but firm. “Get out of there if you need to. I’ll be here whenever you need me.”
I end the call, sitting in silence for a few moments. The truck still smells damp, and the roach is back, scuttling across the dashboard.
Her words echo in my mind.
You are a badass.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe it—just a little.
CHAPTER 87
HIT AFTER HIT
MARGAUX
When I return from therapy, Timmy is in the kitchen, clattering dishes and humming to himself. The scene is deceptively domestic—almost peaceful—but I know better than to trust the surface appearance.
“How was it?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you complain about me?”
“I wouldn’t say I complained,” I reply truthfully. “I talked about what’s going on in my life, which you’re a part of.”
He frowns. It’s as if he thinks our relationship is off-limits to discuss with my therapist. Which is a ridiculous notion.
His face darkens, and I can see the familiar storm brewing behind his eyes. “You always make me sound like the bad guy,” he mutters. “That’s whyIstopped going to therapy, you know. Because I listened to your session and felt like you threw me under the bus.”
The reminder of his eavesdropping hits like a slap. I feel the irritation bubbling in my chest. “Timmy, I didn’t even talk about you much. You’ve said this before, and it’s not true.” I’mresentful that I have to take my therapy calls from a stinky truck because he violated my privacy.
He doesn’t respond, instead tossing a shirt at me. It lands on my head, and I pull it off, placing it beside me on the bed. Juvenile antics, as usual.
A moment later, he drapes a blanket over Sabre. I gently remove it.
Then, he sprinkles water on me.
“Timmy,” I sigh, getting up to leave, grabbing the keys.
As I walk past, he grabs at my hand.
I yank it free, scratching myself on the truck key in my hand as I do.
He smirks, walking past me. “Eww, you stink!” he says, wrinkling his nose dramatically.