Maybe that’s the point.
I mean I can watch reality tv and see the beach.
So life isn’t that bad.
Alice:
Too bad he can't see that. What a moron.
I'm absolutely blown away.
Like, my boyfriend takes care of me because he makes more than I do and I feel bad when I make him upset.
But here isn’t the gorgeous paradise experience I’d hoped for. Here, I feel like I’m a guest in my own life, navigating a landscape that shifts beneath me every time Timmy decides to blow up over something inconsequential.
The whiplash of going from his gentle, loving words to his volatile outbursts is exhausting. It’s a rollercoaster I never signed up for, but one I seem unable to step off.
And yet, amidst it all, Alice’s humor and empathy feel like a lifeline.
She reminds me of who I used to be before this constant chaos became my new normal.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, I can find my way back to that version of me—someone who didn’t measure happiness in stolen seconds of peace but lived it fully.
But as the door slams again, another tantrum echoing in the distance, I wonder if I even remember how to start.
CHAPTER 24
EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CLIFF
MARGAUX
The tantrums escalate in frequency, each one more absurd than the last.
Timmy runs off to the rocks or the sea or the meth tents every chance he gets, like a petulant child putting himself in a self-imposed time-out. The apartment door beeps behind him with such regularity it could be mistaken for the sound of my sanity slipping away.
Each time he returns, he’s more unpredictable. His words cut sharper, his tone more venomous.
“I’m going to tell everybody who you really are,” he sneers one night, his voice dripping with malice.
I don’t respond. I’ve always been an open book—what could he possibly expose that I haven’t already?
“I’m going to destroy your life,” he growls, pacing like a caged animal.
I keep silent, wondering if he realizes he’s already doing just that.
“You’re going to prison for a felony!” he shouts, his voice shaking with indignation.
I quirk an eyebrow, genuinely curious. “Whatfelony?”
He narrows his eyes, desperate to conjure something out of thin air. “I’ll have you found guilty of a felony! You scraped the pillar next to the parking spot and scratched the car next to us!”
I can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t touch the car next to us. Sure, I brushed the pillar—it’s a tight squeeze. But at least I have a license. Call me when you get yours back, and then you can critique my parking.”
His face flushes red, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he storms into the back room and slams the door.
One night, he’s scrolling through his phone when I catch a glimpse of a message from one of his drug-dealing acquaintances:
Timmy’s Drug Dealer Friend: