Anything good I’ve done earlier in the day vanishes.
Anything badhe’sever done? Forgotten.
All that’s left is me, standing as the embodiment of his every flaw and failure.
The tension between us explodes one evening.
“You had me move all the way out here, away from everyone I know,” Timmy accuses, his tone venomous.
“What?! That was your idea,” I counter. “And I don’t know anyone out here either. You said we could move here to focus on our work. I’m holding up my end of that deal. You’re barely doing anything.”
“Well, you drink too much,” he snaps, his argument spiraling into irrelevance.
“What does that have to do with anything? You drink, too! And don’t youdaretry to make this about me.”
The fight escalates, his words cutting deeper with every exchange.
“You always have to be so nasty,” he growls.
“I’m not being nasty,” I plead. “I’m trying to have a conversation. I’m trying to figure out how we can move forward.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, storming out the door.
The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates through the room, leaving me alone with the echo of his words.
CHAPTER 115
WHAT DO YOU WANT? A BIRTHDAY BENDER?
MARGAUX
In all, Timmy keeps up his sober, loving, helpful act for three-and-a-half entire months.
It hasn’t been perfect, but it has definitely been much better.
The screaming, the chaos, the fights—all of it feels like a distant memory.
And while he’s still moody and aimless, the absence of alcohol-induced rage has made life feel tolerable, maybe even good.
Timmy’s birthday is coming up, and he’s been dropping hints about how much he wants to celebrate, and he insists on going to the cinema.
He knows I hate movie theaters—between the thought of someone shooting up the place, the sound of people chewing popcorn and slurping soda like it’s a competitive sport, and the general grossness of it all, it’s my personal version of hell.
I much prefer watching movies at home, wrapped in the safety of my own space.
But it’shisday, so I agree.
When I tell him, his face lights up. “Really? You’ll come with me? You hate the movies!” he says, beaming.
“I know, but it’s your birthday. Pick whatever you want to see.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Longlegs. Nicolas Cage. Horror. You’llloveit!”
The movie itself sounds good. I’m not convinced I’ll love the cinema, but his excitement is infectious, and for once, I want to make him happy without reservation.
I book tickets, and the countdown begins.
And that’s not the only thing we’re counting down to.