“I’ve used alcohol as a Swiss army knife,” I admit aloud. “To numb feelings, to deal with stress, to feel brave in social situations. Somewhere along the line, it became part of my identity.”
Timmy nods. “Yeah, for me, it was about peer pressure. If you didn’t drink enough, you were a pussy. So I became good at it. I was the one organizing the kegs, the one drinking the most. It was who I was.”
For a moment, there’s an openness between us, a sense of shared vulnerability. But I hold back one truth.
I would typically drink around Timmy because it emboldens me—it gives me the courage to bring up the uncomfortable conversations I suppress when I’m sober, when I’m walking on eggshells around him. I’ve hoped drinking together might have provided a lubricant for a healthy, adult discussion.
But deep down, I know it rarely works.
And now that neither of us are drinking, that buffer has been taken away.
He rushes at me, his eyes dark and empty, like the lifeless beads of a shark. He’s not even drinking right now. This is justhim.
Unfiltered.
Unassisted.
It was almost a relief to blame the alcohol before, to pretend it was the root of all his problems. But now it’s clear—this is his personality.
Full of rage.
Full of hatred for women.
Sober, he’s just better at hiding it.
I tell basically no one that he’s back. I’ve only told my therapist, my friend Stacey—who was very disappointed and concerned, and my sister Amanda—who simply replied ‘unbelievable’ and stopped talking to me.
The shame feels too heavy, the fear of judgment too sharp. After everything I’ve said—after the TRO, the emails, the countless times I’ve sworn I was done with him—how could I possibly explain this in a way that anyone would understand? In a way that anyone wouldn’t judge? In a way I wouldn’t feel the weight of unbearable shame?
So instead, I let myself sink into the quiet moments where everything feels okay.
Timmy smiling at me as he cooks dinner.
Sabre curled up between us, purring contentedly.
The soft murmur of our audiobook playing in the background.
If anything, the decision to keep our reunion to myself only serves to push me closer to him.
For now, I cling to these fragile pieces of peace, even as the cracks begin to show beneath the surface.
Because deep down, I know this won’t last.
But I’m too tired to fight it anymore.
Too tired to fight him, or myself.
And I’m embarrassed as hell.
CHAPTER 109
NOT DRINKING
MARGAUX
Acouple of weeks into our new routine, I approach Timmy with a smile. It’s been a transformative time for me—sobriety feels like peeling away layers of fog I hadn’t realized were there.
“I love you so much,” I say, leaning against the counter. “I feel so much better not drinking. Don’t you?”