I quirk a brow, my disbelief written all over my face. “Board shorts and a hat? At this hour?”
“Yeah,” he says, his tone defensive.
“It’s late, Timmy,” I say, shaking my head. “Whatever you left in the truck can wait until daylight.”
His expression darkens, the hint of guilt morphing into irritation. “What?” he snaps. “I’ve been working on my art stuff for the last two hours, and I need a break. So I’m just going to the truck.”
“To smoke a cigarette?” I counter, my voice sharper than I intend. I’ve seen the disgusting little compartment in his truck where he keeps partially smoked cigarette butts, and I know his patterns too well.
His jaw tightens. “No,” he says, but his tone is weak. He knows he’s been caught.
“You’re gross, and I don’t believe you,” I add. “It’s late, and it’s completely inappropriate for you to be leaving the apartment at this hour. We’ve talked about this like a million times.”
His frown deepens, and his voice rises, defensive and sharp. “Fuck you, then. I’ll stay, but I’m going to the back room.”
Before I can respond, he spins on his heel and stomps down the hallway, his heavy steps echoing through the apartment. He slams the door to the back room so hard that the walls vibrate, leaving me standing in the silence, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm. Timmy’s deflections and dramatics are nothing new, but they never fail to leave me feeling drained and questioning why I keep letting him get away with it.
In the quiet that follows, I glance toward the door he was so eager to sneak out of and wonder, not for the first time, what else he’s hiding.
I fill Alice in.
Me:
Like, don’t come in or leave while I’m asleep, unless there is a very good reason.
I hardly sleep, so it seems unnecessary to be sneaking in and out in the few hours I am.
That sounds controlling, but we aren’t dealing with normalcy here, are we?
Alice:
Yeah. You’re dealing with absolutely abnormal.
The next morning, Timmy is sweet and caring, as if nothing happened—Captain Clean Slate is in full swing.
I’m battling one of the heaviest periods of my life, to the point I’m borderline considering going to urgent care.
It’s not just inconvenient—it’s exhausting and overwhelming.
After I bleed through my pants, I change, embarrassed and annoyed, but Timmy takes my soiled clothes without a word, and rinses the blood out for me.
It’s a small act, but it feels monumental in the context of our chaos. For a fleeting moment, I feel supported and cared for. This is how I want to be treated in a relationship, and he’s making it happen. For now.
The moment doesn’t last.
Next thing I know, Timmy is tangling himself in the curtain.
“Timmy,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You don’t need to wrap yourself in the curtain. Please unwrap yourself before you break it.”
He grins. “But I feel so comfy, like I’m in a giant burrito.”
I shake my head. It’s exhausting. He’s a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound toddler.
The contrast between him rinsing my clothes and the whole curtain burrito escapade has exhausted me. All I want to do is sleep.
Later in the day, his weirdness takes a different turn.