THE NEXT DAY
Timmy is driving me nuts as usual, running off in a huff and returning at sporadic intervals, so I decide to escape for a while. That way, I can blare loud music and not sit in the apartment, miserable, wondering where Timmy has gone and when he’ll return.
I grab my keys and head out, driving down to the point. The salty air and blaring music in my car are my temporary antidotes to the suffocating toxicity at home.
I don’t even get far before my phone rings.
Timmy. Of course.
I sigh and answer.
“I saw you drive by,” he says.
“And?” I roll my eyes, gripping the steering wheel. “Why? What are you doing? Who are you with?”
“Nobody,” he replies quickly.
“Are you with the people I saw you with at the store?” I press.
“No, I was just cruising,” he says defensively.
In the Cay, ‘cruising’ usually means stopping to chat with anyone who will give you the time of day. Small talk, gossip, or making some kind of half-assed connection with anybody and everybody in his vicinity..
I hang up, not in the mood to dissect his vague answers.
Moments later, my phone buzzes with a text from him:
Timmy:
Where are you going? Please don’t tell me you have a boyfriend in there.
I message Alice and fill her in:
Me:
Like I have a fucking boyfriend that I tuck under my boob or something. What the actual fuck.
I don’t have time to write books when I am in this relationship, let alone find a spare boyfriend. And I am also the most loyal fucking person in the world. This is so nuts.
Alice:
This is definitely a Detective Pikachu moment.
Like, where is your head?
Also, projection much.
When I get home, Timmy’s hot on my heels. He drops his phone and Apple Watch on the table, leaves without a word, and slams the door. Clearly, he’s upset that I dared to drive somewhere without him by my side. It’s like he’s offended by my mere existence as an independent person.
Later, he comes back with an apology on his lips. It lasts about five minutes. Soon, he’s screaming again.
“All your triggers are fake!” he yells. “You don’t really have PTSD. You made that up! You made up being sexually assaulted because you wanted attention, you dumb bitch!”
His words slice through me like knives. I put my headphones on, drowning him out with music while he continues to yell. Eventually, he storms out again, slamming the door behind him.
LATER
Jo: