Or maybe—just maybe—this is the final nudge she needs to break away.
CHAPTER 130
I'M DONE
MARGAUX
It’s time to end things.Beyond time.
“Timmy,” I say, glancing at him as he sits on the bed next to me, frowning. “Enough is enough. I can’t be with you any more. We’re breaking up. I mean it this time.”
“I agree,” he says. “You’re not good for me.”
He retreats to the back room, and I hear his muffled voice on the phone.
A few minutes later, he returns.
“Dad said he’d fly me back on Tuesday,” he says. “I’m going to Montana so I don’t have to be around you.”
It’s Thursday. I just have to hang on for five more days. I can do this.
I nod. “Okay, that’s good,” I say.
His expression turns. “You have a sickness!” he yells, gesticulating wildly at the TV. “You have an illness from watching… these shows! This is why you’re such a cunt! I can’t stand your shows, and I can’t standyou!”
“Okay, Timmy,” I say.
Gray rock, gray rock.
“You’re such a fucking cunt, you know that?”
I don’t respond, just look at him blankly.
“I’m so sick of hearing about you being raped,” he sneers.
I haven’t mentioned it in at least six months, and the words hit like a slap, but I say nothing. Correcting him isn’t going to help. My stomach churns.
What a horrible thing for anybody to say, especially someone who claims to love you and care about you.
“And I’m so sick of hearing about yourdead uncle.”
I feel bile rise in my throat. The words hit like a sucker punch, each one calculated to wound. It’s like he’s wielding a scalpel, cutting precisely where he knows it will hurt most.
But I haven’t mentioned my uncle for at least six months, either. Especially because Timmy clearly seemed to have a problem whenever I did—said I had an ‘unhealthy obsession’ with him. But again, no point in correcting him.
“And I’m so sick of hearing about your fuckingperiod!” he finishes, his voice dripping with disgust.
Wow, the times he claimed to support me each month while I writhed in pain.
I guess it all meant nothing to him.
I stare at him, incredulous. I can’t stay silent. “What the hell?” I snap. “I haveendometriosisandadenomyosis,” I snap. “I’m inexcruciatingpain every month. Ihaveto talk about it.”
It’s kind of hard not to when it leaves me incapacitated, vomiting, and bedridden every month.
“Well, I’m sick of it,” he says. “And I can’t wait until I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
What an odd choice of things to criticize me for—what a barrage of low blows.