He glances up, and what I just said is confirmed. There’s barely any liquor missing.
“Well, for someone who’s barely had anything to drink,” he sneers, “you’re sure acting like a fucking cunt.”
The next day, I don’t drink at all. I pour myself one small glass of vodka, but my stomach is in knots and I can’t bear the thought of the taste or the smell. So I just leave the glass on the nightstand that serves as a side table.
“You’re drunk,” he slurs half an hour later, after he’s had several drinks of his own. “You’re absolutely hammered.”
“Timmy,” I reply calmly. “I’m literally sitting here working, and I haven’t touched my drink. You are the one who has been drinking.”
“Whatever,” he sneers. “Stupid cunt. Watch your stupid fucking shows. I’m going out for a cigarette. And I’m taking this.” He grabs the half-full bottle and stumbles out of the apartment.
God knows when he’ll be back. Or what state he’ll be in when he returns.
This is awful. I just want to go back to the time when he was kind and sweet and fun. When the most important things in his life weren’t cigarettes and liquor. But I’m beginning to wonder if this is the real Timmy.
If the one that was focused on creating and working and producing a nice life for us was a sham.
Which would be a real shame, because I love that Timmy so deeply.
That Timmy is my soulmate.
I’m beginning to think I’ve received the Temu version of Timmy.
Temu Timmy.
The surfer who doesn’t surf.
CHAPTER 93
THE MOST EVIL THING
MARGAUX
A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER
Things have been surprisingly good lately. Timmy has been cleaning the house, cooking meals, and even helping with some of my graphic design projects.
For once, his actions are consistent with his words, and my trust in him is growing, cautiously but undeniably.
So when his cousin, Janet, shares that her mother is downsizing and moving into an assisted living condo, I bring it up to Timmy. It feels like the kind of lighthearted update he’d appreciate.
“She’s really excited,” I say. “And we joked about how it’d be cool if your parents downsized and moved near her at some point. They could be neighbors—how fun would that be?”
Timmy smiles warmly. “Oh my gosh, that would be adorable. Mom loves hanging out with her.”
It feels like a sweet moment.
I think nothing more of it.
Later, we go grocery shopping. As we pass the liquor aisle, Timmy’s eyes light up. A party bucket filled with twenty tiny Fireball bottles sits on the shelf, practically calling his name.
“Ooh!” he exclaims. “Can youpleaseget me one of these buckets?”
I sigh, already exhausted by the request. “Timmy, I think that’s a terrible idea.”
“Please?”
“No, not happening.”