“Timmy, are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask, my voice hesitant.
“I’m fine,” he snaps. “Stop telling me what to do.”
“Timmy, you’ve had too much to drink,” I say, trying to keep my tone calm. “Please, just pull over.”
His scowl deepens, and without warning, he rears back his fist and smashes it into the car stereo. The sound of breaking plastic fills the cab, followed by a crackling silence as buttons scatter across the dashboard.
I freeze, the breath catching in my throat. My heart races as I realize how easily that fist could have been directed at me.
“I’m sorry, Marg,” he says after a moment, his voice softer. “It was dumb of me to punch the stereo. I’ll fix it. I was just feeling sad because I was thinking about my friend who died, and I was frustrated about an argument I had with Darren a while ago.” He pauses for a moment. “And… I was mad at you for trying to control me—your behavior really was rotten—but I mainly did it because I was struggling with those emotions.”
I blink, stunned by his audacity.Rotten?I’d been trying to keep us safe.
I’ve been punished for asking him not to drive drunk.
For my begging—for my attempting to hold him accountable and keep myself safe—I’m paying the price.
A moment later, he seems to calm down.
I message Alice:
Me:
He just punched my car stereo and cracked it.
Alice:
Get out of there ,please.
Park the car and exit.
Me:
Unfortunately, he’s driving, and the truck is in my name bc he owes me thousands of dollars.
And he apologized and mentioned two feelings he was struggling with. And that it wasn’t mainly my fault. So that’s progress, I guess?
Still said my ‘behavior was rotten’ but I can live with that even though it’s not true.
Alice:
I’m glad you’re safe now, but he needs to behave himself.
This is life with Timmy—storm after storm, with no end in sight. The rocks and the sea feel more stable than he ever could.
His tantrums are as inevitable as the tides, and his apologies as hollow as the shells he brings me.
And yet, here I am, still holding on, still hoping.
For what, I don’t know.
But I’m starting to wonder if even the hope is running out.
CHAPTER 27
NONE OF THIS IS NORMAL
MARGAUX