He leaves for a while, and I see him wandering around by the shore.
When he returns, his face has softened into what I now recognize as a well-practiced expression of regret. “I thought about what you said, and you’re right. Here, I picked you this beautiful shell.” He holds out a shell, its shimmering surface catching the light. “I want to treat you like you deserve. You deserve the world. I’m going to work harder, help you with your stuff. I’ll get up with you every day and work out, and we’ll go on hikes together. No more going down to the beach and hanging out with those guys. Just you and me. Team Ginger Shark, forever.”
“You’ve said this before,” I reply, exhaustion lacing my words. “You’ve said it and then gone and done all the same stuff again and again. I’d feel silly to believe you now. What’s different?”
He shrugs. “I just feel stronger now. I’ve been going to therapy. I feel like every time we’ve gotten closer, and now I’m ready to put my promises into action.”
His words are like honey, but I’ve learned they’re the kind that turns bitter in your mouth.
Later, I watch him pace the room, his gaze flicking toward me every so often. I know he’s trying to bait me into a conversation, but I stay quiet, letting him stew.
Finally, I can’t hold it in any longer. “Do you see that when I say something you perceive as mean, it’s because the thing I’m saying is true? For example, I said you have basically no friends, because everyone in your life except for me has distanced themselves from you. And now people are distancing themselves frommebecause of you. I’m not saying it to be mean—I’m saying it so you can look at your own behavior and why that might be the case.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, angry at hearing another truth.
But I’m not done.
“You, on the other hand, will just make something up. You’ll say that something that happened didn’t, or something that didn’t happen did. The way events played out will change each time you retell the story, or remake the accusation. I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, never knowing if up is down or down is up.”
“Nah, fuck you. You’re full of shit,” he shakes his head. “You think you’re so fucking clever with your smart little brain.”
Once again, Timmy insults me for being…intelligent?
I feel so beaten down by trying to fight and rationalize, even when I know I’m one hundred percent right. And I’m beginning to doubt myself for even the smallest things.
Maybe I misremembered.
Maybe there’s a nuance I’m missing.
Part of me knows that this is all part of his sick, twisted game. But that part of me is getting smaller by the day.
He’s immune to logic. He’s immune to evidence—hell, I can show him something and he just refuses to look at it.
“Here’s a video of how scary you were being last night.” He’s lurching and stumbling with reptilian eyes.
“Fuck you for videoing me,” he replies, missing the point. “I’m going to videoyouwhen you’re being a bitch.”
Won’t look at himself. Refuses to see himself looking ugly and unhinged.
Puts it back on me.
I’m tired, and I’m disgusted with myself for letting this go on for so long.
But always, there’s part of me that wishes he will change. That sees his potential, and wants him to realize it so both of us can be happy.
But it’s a losing battle, and one where I’m the only one who’s losing.
“You drink too much,” he yells, his voice already teetering on the edge of rage. Then his mouth curls into a cruel smirk. “And remember when you fucked up real bad and crashed the truck into the fence?Everyone’sgonna know about it.”
The comment lands like a slap, but I try to hold my ground. “DEARMAN!” I yell back, invoking the very communication method he introduced to me. “You taught it to me. Stick to the one issue!”
He shakes his head, feigning exasperation. “No, no—youare the one who doesn’t stick to DEARMAN!”
I feel the frustration rising in me like a flood. He really should apply for a job in a movie theater because he’s fucking fantastic at projection. “Youliterallyjust brought up something that happenedmonths agowhen I’m trying to talk to you about something that happened in the pastfive minutes.”
“You’re so fucking sick,” he sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. “You and your stupid reality TV shows. No wonder you want to fight all the time.”
My pulse races, my body vibrating with the effort to remain calm. But his accusations swirl in my head, twisting and turning until I can’t make sense of them. I try to focus on my breathing, but the weight of his words presses down on me.