It’s targeted.
Vindictive.
Designed to hurt.
And yet, I still try to defend myself. I still try to make him see how much he’s hurting me. I scream back because it feels unfair to let him win.
But it doesn’t work. It never works.
But now something within me has clicked, absolved me of my guilt, of the burden of worrying that I’m just as bad as him.
Reactive abuse isn’t the same as abuse.
I tell myself this over and over.
It’s not an excuse. I’m not proud of yelling, of calling him names. But this isn’t me. This is a version of me that existsbecause of him.
The version of me that doesn’t want to give up.
That refuses to let him win.
But as I stare at my reflection, my face puffy from crying, my voice hoarse from yelling, I wonder if the real battle isn’t with him—it’s withmyself.
Because I’m starting to think the only way to win is to walk away.
CHAPTER 91
APOLOGISTS ANONYMOUS
MARGAUX
The next time Timmy disappears, he’s gone for six hours. I don’t panic right away, and use the time to catch up on my shows, write, and try to reclaim a small slice of normalcy.
Silver linings, right?
But as the hours stretch on, anxiety creeps in.
I know where he is—down on the beach, surrounded by people in various stages of intoxication. The crowd he gravitates toward doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
When I finally go to find him, I’m met with exactly what I feared—Timmy, drunk, sprawled among the usual suspects. He’s holding court with a five-dollar bottle of gut-churning vodka, laughing too loud, his face flushed from the cheap alcohol.
For someone who doesn’t do meth himself, he sure hangs out with a large number of people who do.
His companions—mostly people living in the tents—are surprisingly calm. One man, his face weathered but kind,glances at me and shakes his head. “He should’ve stopped drinking hours ago,” he mutters. “Man’s got a real problem.”
The words sting.
It’s surreal to hear this from people battling their own demons. Iftheysee Timmy’s behavior as destructive, what does that say?
I glance at him—this attractive, physically capable man who should have so much going for him. Instead, here he is, squandering his potential in a haze of cheap vodka and bad decisions, surrounding himself with drug dealers and drug users.
I pull out my phone and call Phil, his father.
“Can you please talk some sense into him?” I plead. “He’s drunk, and this is dangerous. I’m afraid something bad will happen.”
“How did he even get the alcohol?” Phil asks, his tone accusatory.
“I got it for him,” I admit, biting back my anger. “He insisted. If I didn’t, you would have. And if you wouldn’t, he would’ve just stood outside the store and charmed someone else into buying it for him—or stolen the money. You know he’s taken our laundry quarters to buy booze before. You know how he is.”