Margaux doesn’t even flinch. She just texts Alice and fills her in.
Alice fires back with her usual wit, and Margaux laughs. She’s tired, but she’s still laughing.
I lean back in my chair, watching the screen. She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for, but even the strongest people have limits. Timmy is pushing hers to the breaking point, and I won’t let him take her down.
I zoom back out, my eyes narrowing on Timmy as he stomps around the apartment like a petulant child. Every tantrum, everyoutburst, every frustrated scream, caused by me, feels like a small victory.
Because one day, Timmy will implode. One day, she’ll see him for what he really is— dead weight. Until then, I’ll be here, watching, waiting, and making sure she’s as safe as I can. And giving Timmy a few more reasons to question his sanity along the way—he deserves nothing less.
And when that day comes, Margaux will finally be free.
CHAPTER 29
BROKE-ASS BREAKDOWN
MARGAUX
Later, I try to escape the tension with a drive. I take Sabre, my ever-loyal cat, hoping for a moment of peace and to make sure Timmy doesn’t do anything to him.
But as fate would have it, the truck shudders and comes to a complete stop in the middle of the main road.
Fuck.
I dial 911, but just as the dispatcher answers, a kind man covered in tattoos and wearing a massive gold chain approaches. He tells me to put the truck in neutral, and pushes it down a side street while smoke billows from under the hood.
I call Timmy’s dad, desperate for advice.
“We had a falling out, and I went for a drive, and the truck’s broken down and I don’t know what to do,” I explain.
“Yeah, he called me,” Phil says. “He’s really upset because he felt like Janet was trying to drive a wedge between the two of you. She shouldn’t have been talking about him. He’s just a really nice guy.”
I don’t really know what he’s talking about, but I am aware of his brewing animosity toward his cousin, Janet, ever since we became friends in Montana at his suggestion.
Changing subjects, I describe what’s going on with the truck.
Phil suggests it might be an oil issue.
Before I can act on it, my phone buzzes. It’s Timmy.
“Dad said you need help with the truck,” he says.
“I don’t need help from you,” I snap, hanging up immediately.
The truck cools down enough for me to limp it a little farther down the street before it gives out again. Timmy calls back, and I begrudgingly answer. I describe what’s going on.
“It sounds like a hose has come loose,” he says.
I look under the hood, and he’s right. A hose is loose, but whether it happened naturally or through Timmy’s meddling, I can’t be sure.
With no other option, I wait for him to arrive and fix it.
It’s hard when your abuser is also your rescuer, when they’ve fashioned it so there’s nobody else around who can help. When you have to rely on them to live your day-to-day life. And when they’re potentially the ones causing the issues that they then need to fix.
When he finally shows up, his smugness is palpable. He fixes the hose with the air of someone expecting a medal.
The drive home is silent and thankfully, short. Timmy basks in his self-congratulatory glow, his hero complex in full swing, while I seethe in quiet rage. This is the cycle he thrives on—creating problems, swooping in to ‘save the day,’ and keeping me dependent on him. Relying on him for help he shouldn’t need to give in the first place.
It’s exhausting, demeaning, and utterly relentless. And yet, for reasons I can’t quite articulate, I’m still here. Still enduring it. Still hoping, somehow, for a different ending to this same story.