MARGAUX
I’ve started roller derby boot camp. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, and humbling all at once. My confidence on skates is shaky at best, and being surrounded by fierce, fearless women with names like Slaydie Gaga, Smashley Madison and Blitzkrieg Barbie doesn’t make it any easier. Still, something about it calls to me—a sense of belonging outside of Timmy that I desperately crave.
Timmy surprises me by being incredibly supportive. He insists on coming to practice, making a show of being my biggest cheerleader. There’s something about his insistence on accompanying me that seems off, but it’s not that unusual for team members to bring their kids or significant others, so I let it slide.
While I waver through drills, he roams the periphery, crouching in the bushes and enthusiastically hunting Jackson chameleons. His childlike excitement is endearing, even if it garners a few raised eyebrows.
One day, Timmy announces he wants to skate with me. “I can’t just sit on the sidelines forever,” he says, flashing hissignature grin. But, of course, this means he needs skates—real skates. And not just any skates will do.
“They have to be roller derby quality,” he insists, dismissing my suggestion of a budget pair. He’s meticulous about the details, choosing a sleek helmet in bold colors and top-tier pads. By the end of the shopping spree, I’m wincing at the bill, but trying to stay optimistic. At least it’s something we can do as a workout together, and it sounds like it could be fun.
When he finds us a skate park near a schoolyard, it feels like a tiny slice of magic. The concrete rink stretches wide under the blue sky, and the smooth ramps glint invitingly in the sun.
Timmy skates beside me, encouraging me with an enthusiasm I haven’t seen in a while. He takes time-lapse videos of me circling the track, and claps for me when I manage a trick without falling.
“You’re getting so much better,” he says, his eyes shining. “Look how fast you are now. And your balance has improved, too.”
At first, his praise keeps me going. But boot camp is a different story. The relentless drills under a blistering sun, combined with my clumsy attempts to keep up, drain my spirit. I’m so worn down by Timmy’s constant belittling of everything I do, that every practice feels like a public display of my inadequacies, and an extension of what’s going on at home behind closed doors.
Worse, the structured schedule triggers a deeper unease within me. Timmy thrives in chaos, but I’ve come to dread anything predictable—anything that gives him an opportunity to implode. Each practice becomes another source of anxiety, a ticking time bomb waiting for his antics.
One day, I just can’t bring myself to go back.
“I’ll still skate with Timmy,” I tell myself, clinging to the idea of skating as an escape, a reprieve. But as soon as I quit bootcamp, Timmy’s interest in skating vanishes. The skates, the gear—everything I’d bought for him gathers dust. He shrugs off my invitations with vague excuses: ‘Not today,’ or, ‘Maybe another time.’
It stings more than I’d like to admit. He’s already the surfer who doesn’t surf, and now he’s the skater who doesn’t skate.
I cling to the hope that it’s just a phase.
Until then, I have the apartment complex’s pool.
Swimming becomes my solace—one thing he hasn’t yet managed to ruin.
The harsh glow of my laptop illuminates my face as I click on a new review notification for my latest book. Excitement churns in my stomach. A video review—what could be better?
The first words hit like a slap as an ARC reader grins at the screen. “I reeeeeally wanted to like it… believe me, I did. I dropped everything else on my TBR to read it. But Ireallywish I hadn’t…”
I listen for a while longer, and my heart sinks. Except for one mention so brief you could blink and miss it, the reviewer isn’t critiquing the plot, characters, or writing. Instead, they fixate on a minor publishing guideline, twisting it into a reason to dismiss my work entirely.
I look at the comments on the post, which has gone fairly viral, and my heart sinks further. Readers and, disappointingly, a bunch of pick-me authors, have jumped on board, making ill-informed comments and slandering me and my business ethics.
Timmy notices my mood shift instantly. “What’s up?” he asks, setting aside his phone.
I sigh, gesturing at the screen. “Someone’s decided to make a whole video trashing my book. Not even the story—just some random technicality they’ve blown out of proportion. Something that I learned from more seasoned writers who pitched is as industry standard, and this person is attacking me and acting like I made it up myself.”
His face hardens. “Fuck them. They’re just jealous. You’re an incredible writer, and they can’t stand it. You’re beautiful and successful, and they’re a sad bitch.”
His confidence in me is almost disorienting. His pride feels genuine, a rare moment of us being on the same team. “I believe in you and your writing,” he adds, wrapping me in a hug. “You’re so talented. They wish they were you, but they’re not.”
I smile, feeling like we’re part of a team. Glad to have Timmy by my side in this moment of disappointment and uncertainty.
“I’m in love with a pornographer,” he sings, breaking the tension with a laugh. It’s one of his quirks—an odd but endearing way of lightening the mood.
I can’t help but laugh along.
For now, his unwavering support feels like a balm, a brief reprieve from the storm.
July arrives with the rush of another book release, and I throw myself into preparing PR boxes. The contents are meticulously curated—themed trinkets, true-to-story graphics on cardstock, some of which Timmy helped me to design, and signed copies of the book.