My work fucked me over in March.
I’m like one of those boats spinning around without oars.
And this fucker insists on meeting me day 1 here while I’m paddling in lunatic circles.
And instead of calming my lunacy, he exacerbated it bc he’s even more of a loony tune than me which is hard brooooo.
Alice:
I'm driving, but that sounds exactly like what happened to me when I met my toxic ex.
I was so swept up in him that our joint mental health issues seemed like a great combo at the time!
I was just going through the motions of life, working a lot, lots of hobbies that take up my time, school on top of that. So I'm with this guy who's nice to me, thinks I'm super gorgeous, and wants to love me, and it was so easy to just to fall into that.
I have a flashback to seeing photos of Alice and her ex together on Facebook. I remember feeling a type of way whenever I’d see them. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I didn’t like him. He just gave me the creeps.
Me:
Oh, that guy. You and I were not even close, but I had feelings about that guy. Like he wasn’t good for you.
Alice:
You and everyone else, I'm learning!
I sigh as I stare at Timmy’s upside-down Funko Pop prank and listen to his snores. Despite everything, I’m still trying to piece this together. Alice’s messages echo in my mind, a lifeline in a sea of chaos.
The trip to Montana looms imminently, and I can’t tell if it will be the calm before the storm—or the storm itself. Either way, I’ll live-tweet Alice through every absurd moment.
Because at least I know she gets it.
CHAPTER 19
DENIAL IS A RIVER
MARGAUX
“Timmy,” I plead, trying to keep my voice steady. “Please, just get your ID. We need to leave soon.”
He smirks at me, a cruel edge curling his lips. “I know where it is, but I’m not getting it. You’re toogrotesqueto travel with.” He rolls the word ‘grotesque’ around in his mouth, as if he’s playing with it, as if enjoying the meanness of the word.
The words sting, sharp and deliberate. I swallow hard, ignoring the heat rising in my face. He wants a reaction, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I retreat to the kitchen and dial his dad, Phil, once again. If anyone can help, it’s him.
“Hello,” Phil answers, his tone calm and composed, as always.
“I need your help to get Timmy organized for the airport,” I say quickly. “He says he’s not coming again.”
“Put him on speaker,” he says, and I do, walking nearer to where his son sits, refusing to move.
There’s a pause, then Phil sighs. “Son, get yourself organized,” he says firmly. “We want to see you. Both of you.”
Timmy’s response is immediate and explosive. “Wait until you listen to this recording of Margaux being a bitch!” he screams, his voice reverberating through the apartment.
He stomps toward me, his eyes wild with rage, and repeatedly mouths the words ‘fuck you’at me, exaggerated and venomous, so his dad can’t hear.
“Phil,” I say into the phone, my voice shaking, “he’s saying ‘fuck you’so you can’t hear it.”