Desperate, I call his dad, Phil. My voice shakes as I whisper, “He says he’s not coming. He’s refusing to pack.”
“Put him on speaker,” Phil says, his tone measured, like this is just another Tuesday in Timmyland.
“Son? Are you there?” Phil’s voice echoes through the room.
“I’m not fucking going, Dad!” Timmy yells from the back room. “I’ll just stay here!”
Phil’s wife, Timmy’s mom, joins the call, her voice trembling. “Timmy, you’re so drunk! Calm down!”
Timmy slams the door on his way out, storming off into the night.
When Timmy eventually returns, he seems subdued, the alcohol finally dulling his edge. He slumps onto the bed, his energy spent. “I love you, you know,” he mumbles. “You know I’d never hurt you.”
My stomach twists at his words.If only they were true.
“It’s not about your intention, Timmy,” I reply, my voice quiet but firm. “It’s the crushing of my throat that hurts hours later. Intention or not, the impact is the same.”
“Well, I wouldn’t,” he says casually, as if he didn’t ‘jokingly’ strangle me for the past three-and-a-half hours and uninvite me from visiting his parents.
I frown, annoyed at his dismissive response. “It’s statistically possible you will harm me based on domestic violence data.”
He shrugs, as if we’re debating something trivial. “It was just an accident.”
“An accident?” I snap. “So the first time was on purpose, andthistime was an accident?” My brow arches as I stare at him, daring him to explain his logic.
He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls a blanket around himself, retreating into the bed like a child who’s been scolded.
Unable to keep it all inside, I message Alice. It’s the middle of the night for her, but I know she has weird sleeping hours.
Me:
Do you happen to be awake?
Fifteen minutes later, she responds.
Alice:
Now!
Yes!
You okay? What's up?
Sorry, I'm a morning person but like not quite that morning.
Me:
Just got into a massive domestic bc BOY JOYS.
Alice:
It seems we're discovering we're lost halves of 1 mess.
Me:
I’m supposed to be flying in like 4-5 hours.
Alice: