It’s not just about his strength, though I won’t pretend I don’t love the way he towers over me, solid and unshakable.
It’s about the way heseesme.
Not as someone who needs saving.Someone worth protecting.
And for the first time—ever—I’m starting to believe that about myself, too.
So, I let myself sink into him, into us. I let him love me, and I love him back with everything I have left.
Because maybe that’s what healing looks like.
EPILOGUE
MARGAUX
SIX MONTHS LATER
“You’ll never have to send another running pickle again,” Dex says, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
“Thank fucking goodness,” I reply with a dramatic sigh, shaking my head. “I was really worried this whole experience was going to put me off pickles. And I love a good pickle.”
“Oh, I know you do,” he says, leaning in with an exaggerated wink. “Just as well I have an excellent pickle.”
The absurdity of his statement sends us both into laughter—deep, gut-wrenching belly laughs that leave me wiping tears from my eyes. The kind of laugh I thought I could only have with Timmy back in the day.
But with Dex, it’s different. The laughter isn’t a mask for discomfort or an attempt to brush past red flags. It’s genuine. Easy. Freeing.
With Dex, there’s no baggage, no manipulation waiting in the wings. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a chasm of chaos. He’s steady. Solid. A partner in every sense of the word.
He’s not going to do anything crazy—well, only the good kind. Like putting on a mask and chasing me through the woods. Nothing that will hurt me.
And the best part? I don’t have to fix him.
He doesn’t need fixing.
He’s perfectly imperfect.
Dex gets up every morning and goes to work, no prodding or pushing required. He handles his responsibilities with ease, whether it’s paying bills or dealing with the mundane logistics of life. His credit is better than mine—a fact he teases me about endlessly—and he’s always planning ahead, talking about investments, future trips, and dreams we can build together.
But it’s not about the money. It’s about the effort, the balance, the mutual respect. I never feel like he’s taking more than he’s giving, or expecting me to pour every ounce of myself into him without a second thought. He buys me gifts occasionally, little surprises that make my day brighter, but they’re never transactional. They’re just... kind. Thoughtful.
When we fight—and yes, we fight sometimes—it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Dex never uses his words as weapons. He doesn’t storm off or turn silent to punish me. He raises his voice on occasion, but always calms down quickly, and we talk it out like adults. The air clears, and we move forward. Stronger.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m in a partnership, not a parent-child dynamic. I’m not his caretaker or his therapist. I’m his equal. And that’s exactly how it should be.
Do I ever think about Timmy? Occasionally.
It’s not the kind of thinking that leaves me shaking or crying anymore. It’s more like a fleeting memory—a shadow passingthrough my mind. I used to worry that some small, twisted part of me would always hold on to him, clinging to the idea of who he could have been. But I’ve learned to let that go.
Because the version of Timmy I loved never really existed. He was a mirage, a carefully constructed act designed to lure me in. The creative, loving, surfer boy who made me laugh until I cried? That was an act. A mask. And once I understood that, it became easier to release the truth about the love I thought I had for him.
Now, all I feel is pity and relief.
Pity for his rage and hatred of women. Pity for the people in his life who continued to enable him, turning a blind eye to his destruction. Relief that there will now be no next person who will fall for his act, walking into the storm I barely escaped.
Mostly, I pity him for himself. Because his life was miserable. He numbed himself with substances and distractions, trying to emulate the joy he didn’t know how to feel.
I see that now. I see the emptiness that drove him, the hollowness he could never fill.