I’ve been a Chelsea Handler fan for as long as I can remember. Her late-night show was a particular favorite. So when I found out she would be coming to Sunset Cay for a live stand-up performance, I didn’t hesitate—I grabbed tickets immediately. It’s coming up soon, and I’m buzzing with excitement, and cannot wait for the show.
Timmy knows how much I’ve been looking forward to this. He also knows it’s the day after his upcoming birthday.
“So you’re really making me go see some sexist comedian for my birthday?” he asks, his tone accusatory, as though I’d forced him into attending a public stoning.
“It’s the dayafteryour birthday, silly,” I reply, trying to keep things light. “And it’ll be fun! You said you think she’s funny, too.”
He admits he does, in fact, find her funny, but his initial reaction says it all. Timmy’s ego feels threatened, as though Chelsea Handler herself has conspired to overshadowhisbirthday.
“Look,” I offer, trying to smooth things over. “We can go out for dinner before the show to celebrate your birthday. I’ll take you to that fancy place I told you about. You said it sounded awesome.”
It’s another effort to placate him, to make him feel like the center of attention—The Timmy Show, as usual.
Even though Chelsea Handler is infinitely funnier—and far more intelligent—than Timmy could ever hope to be.
On the Fourth of July, we have a wonderful day where we cook for each other.
We take a giant inflatable unicorn out into the ocean, and Timmy uses a broom to paddle us around the lagoon, the waves lifting us up and carrying us along as if we’re surfing. Turtles paddle by, and parents teach their children to swim.
It feels like this is how Sunset Cay was meant to be all along.
A few days later, Timmy’s birthday rolls around.
We arrive at the city’s cinema early, so we decide to kill time by strolling through Target. The store is buzzing with shoppers, the fluorescent lights making everything feel oddly surreal.
As we wander the aisles, Timmy’s phone rings. It’s Steve the Horse Cop.
“I had a dream about Darren,” Steve says. “He came to me and said he’s happy where he is.”
Timmy tears up, his voice wistful. “He hasn’t visited me in my dreams, yet. I know it’s because he’s still mad at me for how we ended things last time we talked. But I’m glad he’s happy.”
After they hang up, Timmy wipes his eyes, and we continue to stroll. He slows in front of the wine section, his eyes scanning the bottles.
“Oh, let’s get a bottle of wine for my birthday,” he says casually, as though this were the logical next step. “I really feel like a drink to celebrate. I feel like a nice red.”
I stare at him, trying to process. “Since when do you drink red wine? And... you’re on your alcohol medication. You can’t drink wine—it’ll make you sick.”
His lips curl into a smug smile. “Ah, well,” he says, stretching out the words like he’s delivering a punchline. “I took myself off that. About two weeks ago.”
The words hit me like a gut punch. He secretly stopped taking the medication that prevents him from drinking?
Two weeksbefore his birthday? Precisely the same amount of time it takes you to wean off the drug?
I blink at him, my stomach sinking. “You... took yourself off the medication that makes you physically incapable of drinking alcohol, exactly two weeks before your birthday?”
“Well, it wasn’t planned or anything,” he says, feigning innocence. “It just kind of happened. My pills ran out, and I guess you need some special prescription signed by a doctor to get a refill.” He shrugs. “I just didn’t bother. So now I can drink, and it’s my birthday! So can we get some wine?”
“No, I’m not buying you wine,” I say firmly, my exhaustion mounting.
“Please?” He tries one more time.
“No, we can’t get wine!” My voice is sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it.
My mind is reeling.
For months, things have been calmer, quieter. Not perfect, not even close, but manageable. And now this?
He pouts but doesn’t press the issue. The moment lingers, heavy and unresolved, as we leave Target and head for the theater.