The movie is absurd, scary, and surprisingly fun. I laugh and squeal at the jump scares, and Timmy laughs at me, holding my hand tightly through the most intense scenes.
We share popcorn, chips and queso, hot dogs, and a giant soda. For a while, it feels normal—like we’re just a couple indulging in a night out.
But while I enjoy it, my inner voice nags at me. Timmy’s calculated timing to quit Anabusin feels like the first domino in yet another of his schemes.
What’s he trying to do? Go on a birthday bender?
Or am I overthinking it, turning something innocent into something sinister?
I shove the thoughts down, forcing myself to focus on the movie.
For now, everything is fine.
Afterward, as we’re walking to the truck, Timmy’s mood shifts. His earlier cheer fades into something quieter, almost sulky. “Thank you for taking me to the movies,” he says, his tone tinged with petulance. “I know you don’t particularly like going, so I appreciate you making the effort.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling up at him, trying to stay upbeat. “Happy birthday! What would you like for dinner?”
He shrugs. “I don’t feel like going to a restaurant now. Maybe we can just get some Thai food.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “If you’re sure?”
“And maybe we could get some wine to have at home,” he suggests, his tone hopeful.
The words hang in the air, loaded with implication. I hesitate, the warmth from earlier rapidly dissipating. “Timmy, we’re not getting wine,” I say firmly.
He sighs, his shoulders slumping as if I’ve just ruined his birthday. “Fine,” he mutters, climbing into the truck.
On our way home, Timmy sulks.
All he can focus on is getting his next fix.
It makes me wonder what else he’s doing behind my back.
Later, I lie awake in bed, replaying the day in my head. The movie, the laughter, the moments of connection—they were real.
But so was the smug smile in Target, the calculated way he revealed his decision to stop taking his medication.
I try to convince myself it’s nothing. That he’s just testing boundaries, pushing for a little more freedom.
But deep down, I know better.
Timmy doesn’t just test boundaries—heobliteratesthem.
Tonight feels like the first crack in the fragile stability we’ve built over the past few months.
I turn to him, watching as he sleeps peacefully beside me, his face free of the tension that so often defines our days. I want to believe that things will be okay, that we can hold onto the good moments and leave the bad ones behind.
But the nagging feeling in my chest won’t go away.
I thought things were better. I thought he’d finally turned over a new leaf. Three-and-a-half months is a long time to keep up an act. To follow through on all the things he promised he would.
But this clearly isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER 116
DEAR CHELSEA: AITA?