I head to the apartment, and as I unlock the door, a familiar heaviness sets in. I’m bracing for what else I might find—for what Timmy’s impulsive behavior might have cost me this time.
My thoughts race toward the PR box items I know have been delivered—things I’ve spent my time and money carefully curating for my readers. I can’t bear the thought of them having being destroyed in one of his tantrums.
To my surprise, Timmy greets me with an almost subdued energy. His face is a mix of sorrow and exhaustion, hismovements slower than usual. His recent self-inflicted injuries have left him drained.
I feel safe.For now.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, almost childlike. “I never meant to hurt you. You mean everything to me. But you broke my brain.”
I look at him, my expression carefully neutral. I don’t rise to the bait. I won’t play the blame game.
He shows me his injuries. He’s scratched thebackof his arm up, not the wrist side. And he has a couple of very minor scratches on his chest.
“The truck won’t start,” I say flatly, shifting the conversation.
He hesitates, and then looks sheepish. “Oh, yeah… I removed something so you couldn’t leave with it.” His voice trails off.
I sigh, my irritation rising. “Fix it immediately.”
Timmy nods and shuffles off to put his shoes on. I order him an Uber so he can head to the auto parts store to replace the part he didn’t just damage, but broke beyond repair. It’s always like this—a moment of chaos, followed by half-hearted apologies and promises to do better, as well as forking out money to fix whatever destruction Timmy has wrought.
While he’s gone, I take stock of the apartment.
Thankfully, the PR box items appear to be intact.
But my printer is broken, rendering me unable to print the shipping labels I need for my books, the top piece completely ripped off of it.
I notice items missing from the fridge.
What else has he done that I just haven’t noticed yet?
When Timmy gets back from the auto parts store, I confront him.
“You broke my printer,” I say, my voice monotone.
“No I didn’t.” He shakes his head.
I lift up the detached piece that won’t go back on.
“Oh,” he says, and looks down. “Sorry.”
“And my bougie nonalcoholic drinks?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I got rid of them,” Timmy mutters, shrugging, not even trying to justify it.
The screen from the back window is missing again, his personal escape hatch for whenever he feels like disappearing.
I add the mounting damages to his ever-growing tab.
Timmy’s face is downcast as I do, but the promises come quickly. “I’ll pay you back,” he insists, his words hollow. “I promise. I really am sorry about all of this.”
I sigh. “I’m going to take my therapy session from the truck,” I say.
“What are you going to talk to her about?” he asks, looking concerned. “You probably shouldn’t mention what I did to the truck, because she’ll probably need to report it.”
What a curious thing to be worried about after all the things he’s done.
As I recount the events to my therapist—including, of course, what happened to the truck—she listens with unwavering support. Her guidance is clear but gentle, helping me see the reality I’ve been avoiding for way too long.