“I don’t want to go,” I reply, my voice flat.
“Then I’m going alone.”
And just like that, he’s gone—for about half an hour. Long enough to go to the 7-Eleven, buy a Black and Mild—probably with the laundry quarters—and smoke it on the beach, I suppose.
When he returns, the scent of smoke clings to him like a second skin. It makes my stomach turn.
I’m upset as usual. And he knows it.
I want to say something, to confront him about his reckless behavior, but I don’t.
What’s the point? I’m too tired to fight, and he’s too adept at twisting the narrative.
Instead, I fall asleep, emotionally exhausted by his constant mind games. I don’t want to talk about cigarettes any more.
THE NEXT DAY
“I’m leaving,” Timmy snaps, his voice dripping with venom. “You are a Nazi, and you’re controlling my movements.”
I couldn’t help myself. I eventually brought up his disrespect over the Black and Mild last night, and now we’re arguing.
I’m paying for mentioning it.Shocker.
I can feel my composure cracking, the edges of my voice as sharp as glass. “Timmy, I’m not controlling you. You’re prioritizing just about everything over us. Smoking, going for swims. Can you please do something productive to contribute to our household?”
He sneers at me, his eyes narrowed. “When your books fail, will I be able to dictate where you go and when?”
Then he swooshes the door open and storms out. I don’t stop him. I don’t have the energy.
His parting words hit me harder than any physical blow.When your books fail…
He may as well have punched me in the face and the gut. The wind is knocked out of my sails. The guy who has actually been pretty supportive about my career in some ways is now anticipating its failure. Is this how he’s really felt all along,and he was just blowing smoke up my ass because he wanted something from me?
The same guy who used to brag about my books, and tell me and everyone else how proud he is of me and my writing career? How the tables have turned.
When your books fail…
When your books fail…
His cruel words rattle around in my brain until they’re all I hear. My imposter syndrome rises from the ashes like a particularly resilient zombie, and I feel sick.
His absence brings a strange relief, but the words he left behind continue to gnaw at me.
Timmy returns a couple of hours later. “Put on Pete Davidson and John Mulaney,” he demands, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened and he hadn’t just predicted the failure of my dream career.
I find a YouTube special featuring them both. It’s funny and twisted, the kind of humor we typically both enjoy. I’m glad for the distraction, but it doesn’t last long.
Within about fifteen minutes, he’s visibly agitated. His body is moving a little differently, his lips twisted in a frown. “Why did you put that shit on? You know I don’t like it. You know it upsets me.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded, my voice scrunched in disbelief. “Since when didthisupset you? And youaskedme to put it on.”
He pauses, his expression genuinely confused. “Oh, I did?”
“Yes.” I reply, exhaustion creeping into my voice.
He looks genuinely surprised. “Oh.” He shrugs it off, as though his own words are as inconsequential as the truth itself.
I resist as every cell in my body tries to grow eyes just so they can roll them.