“Son, just stop,” Phil replies, his tone a mix of exasperation and weariness.
Timmy mouths it again, his face inches from mine.Fuck you.Over and over.
“I don’t give a shit about a recording, son,” Phil says sharply. “If you send it to me, I’ll erase it on receipt.”
For a moment, relief washes over me. At least Phil isn’t buying into Timmy’s narrative, his attempt to paint me as the villain in whatever story he’s constructing this time. God knows what he’s recorded, but it reminds me of the other time he videoed me.
Building evidence to show his parents—and whoever else—how everything is my fault. And how so very horrible I am.
Timmy scowls, clearly displeased by his dad’s refusal to engage. He grabs the vodka bottle from the counter and takes a swig, pacing the apartment like a trapped wolf.
“Son,” Phil says, his voice softer now, “your mother has been so excited that you’re coming. It’s all she’s been talking about. You’d break her heart if you didn’t come.”
Timmy scoffs, but for a fleeting moment, guilt flickers across his face. Phil knows how to push his buttons. The mention of his mother tugs at some deeply buried part of him, and I watch the internal battle play out—the child desperate for her approval warring with the man consumed by his own chaos.
But the guilt doesn’t last. His expression hardens, and his voice rises. “No, fuck it! That’sherproblem! I’m not going!”
Then, as if flipping a switch, he turns his fury back to me. “She can’t come!” he screams. “She can’t come to Montana anymore!”
Before I can respond, he storms out of the apartment, the vodka bottle clutched tightly in his hand. The door slams behind him, and the lock beeps with aggressive finality, leaving me in sudden silence.
I press the phone back to my ear.
“Are you there, Margaux?” Phil asks.
“Yes, I’m here,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Well,” Phil says, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a drunken tantrum, “you should come anyway, with or without him. I’ll pick you up from the airport, okay?”
What in the world?
His calmness is jarring, almost surreal. The idea of flying to Montana to meet Timmy’s parents—without Timmy—is bizarre.
And yet, the way Phil suggests it, as if this is perfectly normal, makes me wonder if itisnormal for them.
That their grown, nearly 40-year-old son is having a tantrum over… nothing.
“Um… okay, yeah,” I say hesitantly. “I’ll try to calm him down in the meantime.”
“Thank you,” Phil says. “I look forward to meeting you in either case.”
His dad is so calm about the whole thing, as if the way Timmy was yelling and slurring was commonplace. I’m not sure whether he just plays things off as if they’re okay when they’re obviously not, preferring to sweep them under the rug than engage in any type of confrontation. Or whether he’s just so accustomed to Timmy’s wild behavior that it no longer phases him.
When the call ends, I sit in stunned silence. The absurdity of the situation crashes over me like a wave. Timmy’s erratic behavior, his slurred shouting, the way Phil brushes it off as just another day in the life—it’s all too much.
Is this really their normal? Making plans around their son’s spontaneous tantrums? Adjusting expectations on a whim because Timmy decided to unravel yet again?
I glance at the door, half-expecting Timmy to burst back in at any moment. My chest tightens with the familiar mix of dread and exhaustion.
I should pack, I tell myself.I should prepare for the possibility that I’ll be flying to Montana alone, meeting his parents without him. The thought feels surreal, but then again, so does everything else about this relationship.
And as I start to gather my things, I can’t help but wonder—is this the life I signed up for? Or just the one I’ve trapped myself in?
CHAPTER 20
IF I WAS A GAMBLING WOMAN
MARGAUX