He’s right. We can spend more time with his parents, and I can get to know them better.
Becky showed her true colors, and this is all for the best.
I block her on social media, because I can’t bear to see pictures of the event showing up on my feed and reminding me I’m not allowed to go. And because I’m deeply hurt by the way she chose to act in this delicate situation.
I tell myself it’s her loss, not mine. That someone who truly cared wouldn’t have blindsided me with a cold and detached message like that.
But deep down, even though I’m extracting a toxic element that doesn’t serve me, I know I’m cutting off another tether to the life I had before Timmy.
I’d thought this trip might be a chance for him to show me—and the world—the better side of himself. Instead, it’s just another thing he’s tainted, another reminder of how small my world has become since he entered it.
I don’t feel supported—I feel cut adrift, like Becky’s message wasn’t just about Timmy, but about me. About who I’ve become since I met him.
And as much as I try to tell myself that blocking her is a show of strength, it feels more like surrender.
CHAPTER 16
FAILING MONTANA
MARGAUX
The night before the trip to Montana, Timmy paces the apartment like a caged animal—a drunk and belligerent one. His movements are erratic, his expression dark.
There’s an edge to his voice when he finally speaks, turning his attention to me. “I’m going to give you a noogie,” he says with a cruel smirk, that cold, reptilian look flashing in his eyes.
But there’s no noogie. Instead, his hands go to my throat, his arm locking around my chest.
At first, I freeze. Surely, he’ll let go in a second, right? He’s joking, right?
But the seconds stretch into minutes, and every time I try to push him off, his grip tightens. He’s too strong for me to break free.
Three and a half hours pass while he does this intermittently. I sit, numb, staring at the wall, wondering if this will escalate into something worse.
And he just cackles and looks at me like I’m the one with the problem.
“Timmy, please stop,” I finally plead, my voice hoarse. “You’re hurting me.”
He cackles. “Fuck you,” he snaps. “You’re a fucking bitch, and I’m not fucking going to Montana!” His words are slurred, but his anger is sharp.
When I manage to wrench myself away, adrenaline takes over. I run straight out the door and down the outdoor path, heading for the security shack.
Tina, the security guard, looks up at me, her brow furrowing.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her tone calm but concerned.
I tell her, the words tumbling out in a rush. My chest heaves, and my hands shake.
“Do you want me to call the police?” she offers.
“No, please don’t,” I beg. The thought of police intervention—and the chaos it would bring—feels unbearable. If they lock him up and he misses the trip, it’ll just make everything worse. I can already picture the aftermath.
Tina sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you two need to sort your shit out, or you won’t be able to live here much longer.” Her words are blunt, but there’s no judgment in her voice. I get the sense she’s seen it all before.
When I return to the apartment, Timmy is still here. He looks calmer, but I know better than to trust that. My eyes drift to my Funko Pop collection—three Post Malones, two Machine Gun Kellys, one Yungblud—all lined up neatly but placed upside down.
Weird flex, but okay.
It doesn’t take long for him to spiral again. His voice grows louder, more belligerent. “I’m not fucking going anywhere!” he shouts.