And now? Now, I’m terrified. Terrified that he’ll keep dragging me lower and lower until there’s nothing left of me—no savings, no job, no self-esteem.
And then?
Then he’ll run off to someone else, leaving me in the rubble of the life I built before he came along.
I talk to my therapist about it. “He says this situation is the same as my ex texting me, and it’sdriving me insane.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “That’s apples and oranges. Those two situations arenothingalike.”
“That’s whatIthought! But he’s so adamant…”
She sighs. “It sounds like he’s trying to make you question yourself, to deflect the blame. And honestly? It sounds like he’s enjoying the chaos.”
I nod, feeling validated for the first time in days. Of course, that’s exactly what he’s doing. Triangulating. Stirring the pot. Keeping himself entertained by my discomfort.
But instead of feeling jealous, I just feel… disappointed and grossed out.
Disappointed that this is the man I chose to share my life with—a man who thrives on chaos and refuses to protect the sanctity of our relationship.
Grossed out that he seems not to be at all picky about the women he sleeps with—god knows what he’s been doing each time he’s left for hours.
He swears he’s never cheated on me, and that he never would—but I know he’s cheated on at least one girlfriend before, and he tends to make everything someone else’s fault.
Back-Burner Barbie can have him. Let her.
I’m beginning to see that Forgetabelle and Timmy deserve each other—a perfect pair of self-absorbed, ugly disasters.
CHAPTER 126
EMOTIONAL VAMPIRE
MARGAUX
The next morning, I’m working and I see him stir beside me.
“Good morning!” I say brightly. An attempt to start the day out on a good note.
He shakes his head and scoffs. “You always wake up and you’re so cute to me the next day. It won’t fly this time!”
I peer at him, feeling my exhaustion weigh heavier than my anger. “No, Timmy. That’syou. You wake up and act sweet, trying to reorient yourself. I’m just trying to reset, trying to give you and the day a chance to be positive. But it feels like a waste, bruh—becauseyou’veproven—over and over—that you’re angrier, meaner, especially in the evenings. Not just when you’re drinking, but even when you’re not.”
He looks at me, blank-faced, but I can see the storm brewing beneath his surface.
“I’m the one who has to pay for your moods,” I say quietly. “And frankly, I’m tired of it.”
A while later, his demeanor changes. He’s suddenly all soft smiles and gentle words, his eyes warm again. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone dripping with sincerity. “I’ve been thinking about things, and I apologize for the way I acted. You deserve better. I’m going to treat you so much better.”
I want to believe him. His kindness feels like a balm, soothing the wounds he inflicted just hours before. His smile is almost enough to make me forget the cruelty.
Almost.
Maybe he’s right, too—maybe I did contribute to the issues we’ve been facing.
But I know better than to trust his words—I’ve been to this rodeo, seen this cycle play out way too many times.
I’ve been burned by the sweetness that always precedes the storm.
Later that evening, a chilling thought crosses my mind.