I bite my lip, debating whether to respond. He’s being ridiculous. Paranoid. But the thought of trying to explain myself again is exhausting.
Outside the Thai restaurant, there’s a cat—a small, scruffy tabby perched on the sidewalk, watching me with wide green eyes. I snap a picture and send it to Timmy, hoping to lighten the mood.
Bad idea.
Timmy:
Who’s fucking cat is that?
How can you cheat on me?
You fucking slut!
My stomach twists. I can feel the frustration bubbling up inside me, threatening to boil over.
I sigh. This guy literally thinks I’m cheating on him if I’m in the bathroom for ‘too long’.
I give up.
Me:
I’m not cheating on you.
I’m not at anyone’s house.
Jesus Christ, can you trust me for just one minute?
Timmy:
You’ve been on the apps.
You’re meeting with someone.
You’re at some guy’s house.
And you’re sending me pictures of his cat.
Me:
That makes no fucking sense, Timmy!
Timmy:
You’d be so mad if I drove around and didn’t tell you where I was going.
Me:
You walk off all the time and are gone for HOURS without telling me where you’re going! It’s the same thing!
Timmy:
No! You’re off on some date! I know it!
I sigh deeply, gripping the steering wheel and forcing myself to take a few calming breaths. He doesn’t even need logic—he just needs a reason to lash out and hurl ridiculous accusations.
Me:
I’m getting Thai food. I’m hungry. You can have some if you want.