CHAPTER 26
RUNAWAY PICKLE
MARGAUX
When Timmy returns hours later, he plops down next to me as if nothing happened, the scent of saltwater still clinging to him. He doesn’t acknowledge the chaos of earlier, doesn’t apologize for the whirlwind he left behind.
Instead, he picks up the remote and puts on Pete Davidson’s new comedy special.
For a brief moment, things feel almost normal. We laugh at the same jokes, sit shoulder to shoulder, and I catch myself wondering if more moments could be like this.
But the peace never lasts.
Over the next month, the cycle becomes its own cruel ritual. Timmy runs away after every argument or perceived slight, only to return hours later with a token of remorse—a shell from the ocean, an interesting rock, once even a feather.
It’s as though these little offerings are meant to repair the cracks he’s left behind, but the weight of his apologies is featherlight compared to the damage he’s done.
Occasionally, there are outlier events that break the monotony of his tantrums.
One day, I do a phone interview for an HR role, sitting in the truck while Timmy stands outside, bouncing a ball like a child. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of it grates against my concentration, and I’m convinced the interviewer can hear it through the phone.
Afterward, Timmy makes an announcement. “I should get a job so I can pay you back for everything I owe you,” he says earnestly. “And because idle hands are the devil’s playground.”
For a fleeting moment, I believe him. But, of course, it’s all talk. Timmy makes no effort to find work.
Occasionally, he dives into graphic design projects, and some of his work is genuinely impressive. But his focus is fleeting, his drive non-existent, and never really leads to anything that can make an income.
Of course he doesn’t try to get a job.
Nothing ever comes of it.
He’s all talk.
I tell Alice.
Alice:
I imagine this man’s head is empty.
Her humor keeps me sane in a way Timmy never could.
The running-away episodes start to blur together.
One day, it’s because I refuse to buy him a Black and Mild.
The next day, he announces he’s going to spend hours snorkeling while I work. This angers me.
“I don’t pay rent out of my savings to fund you going snorkeling while I work,” I snap.
His reaction is immediate and predictable. He storms out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattle.
Me:
Alice, every time Timmy runs away, I’m going to send you a running pickle GIF. This one:
Timmy drinks as he drives, the cloying scent of Fireball mingling with the salty sea air. My stomach twists with anxiety as I watch him sip from the bottle.
He pulls over by a beachside cliff and starts ranting about something so inconsequential and random I can’t even follow. His voice is slurred, his words jumbled.