12. Boy Joys
CHAPTER 12
BOY JOYS
MARGAUX
A WEEK OR SO LATER
T he days blend together, an exhausting loop of tension and fleeting calm, like the eye of a storm that never fully dissipates.
My body aches, not just from the lingering bruises, but from the emotional toll of existing in Timmy’s orbit. Every moment with him feels like walking a tightrope over an abyss, never knowing when the rope will snap.
We’re sitting together—me working, him watching a random show, as usual—when a cruel glimmer sparkles in his eyes. Timmy’s smirk cuts through the silence like a night. “I’m trying to be— no, wait, I can’t tell you. It will make you mad.”
He’s testing me again, pushing buttons he knows are worn thin. He’s well aware that I hate it when he does this—partially says something, and then stops and won’t tell me what he was going to say. It’s a pet peeve because it gives me FOMO, and I feel like I’m missing out on the most important words the person was ever to utter.
Of course, it’s usually something silly or irrelevant, but that’s beside the point. He knows I can’t stand it, so he delights in doing it.
I frown, my voice weary. “You know that annoys me.”
He shrugs, his smirk deepening into something darker, as if he just got one over on me somehow. “Well, I can’t remember what I was going to say, so it doesn’t matter.”
It’s a game to him, a petty act of control disguised as banter.
He thrives on my frustration, on the tiny power he wields in moments like this.
Later in the evening, he announces, “I’m going to go get a Black and Mild.” His tone is casual but with an edge of defiance.
Great, there it is. He wants to smoke again.
Late at night, hanging out with goodness knows who on a dangerous street in a dangerous neighborhood.
He grows cockier about the whole idea. “I’m going to go smoke. I’m going by myself.”
“You know how I feel about that,” I say quietly, not even looking up.
“Well, come with me then,” he challenges, shrugging.
I quirk a brow. “You want me to come with you?”
He shrugs again. “Look, I’m going with or without you.”
“I don’t want to go,” I reply, my voice flat.
“Then I’m going alone.”
And just like that, he’s gone—for about half an hour. Long enough to go to the 7-Eleven, buy a Black and Mild—probably with the laundry quarters—and smoke it on the beach, I suppose.
When he returns, the scent of smoke clings to him like a second skin. It makes my stomach turn.
I’m upset as usual. And he knows it.
I want to say something, to confront him about his reckless behavior, but I don’t.
What’s the point? I’m too tired to fight, and he’s too adept at twisting the narrative.
Instead, I fall asleep, emotionally exhausted by his constant mind games. I don’t want to talk about cigarettes any more.
THE NEXT DAY
“I’m leaving,” Timmy snaps, his voice dripping with venom. “You are a Nazi, and you’re controlling my movements.”
I couldn’t help myself. I eventually brought up his disrespect over the Black and Mild last night, and now we’re arguing.
I’m paying for mentioning it. Shocker.
I can feel my composure cracking, the edges of my voice as sharp as glass. “Timmy, I’m not controlling you. You’re prioritizing just about everything over us. Smoking, going for swims. Can you please do something productive to contribute to our household?”
He sneers at me, his eyes narrowed. “When your books fail, will I be able to dictate where you go and when?”
Then he swooshes the door open and storms out. I don’t stop him. I don’t have the energy.
His parting words hit me harder than any physical blow. When your books fail…
He may as well have punched me in the face and the gut. The wind is knocked out of my sails. The guy who has actually been pretty supportive about my career in some ways is now anticipating its failure. Is this how he’s really felt all along, and he was just blowing smoke up my ass because he wanted something from me?
The same guy who used to brag about my books, and tell me and everyone else how proud he is of me and my writing career? How the tables have turned.
When your books fail…
When your books fail…
His cruel words rattle around in my brain until they’re all I hear. My imposter syndrome rises from the ashes like a particularly resilient zombie, and I feel sick.
His absence brings a strange relief, but the words he left behind continue to gnaw at me.
Timmy returns a couple of hours later. “Put on Pete Davidson and John Mulaney,” he demands, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened and he hadn’t just predicted the failure of my dream career.
I find a YouTube special featuring them both. It’s funny and twisted, the kind of humor we typically both enjoy. I’m glad for the distraction, but it doesn’t last long.
Within about fifteen minutes, he’s visibly agitated. His body is moving a little differently, his lips twisted in a frown. “Why did you put that shit on? You know I don’t like it. You know it upsets me.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded, my voice scrunched in disbelief. “Since when did this upset you? And you asked me to put it on.”
He pauses, his expression genuinely confused. “Oh, I did?”
“Yes.” I reply, exhaustion creeping into my voice.
He looks genuinely surprised. “Oh.” He shrugs it off, as though his own words are as inconsequential as the truth itself.
I resist as every cell in my body tries to grow eyes just so they can roll them.
I message Alice.
Me:
Hey, how are you? Sorry, it sounded like you were having a rough day the other day and I was so caught up in my own mess I didn’t even ask you about it.
Alice:
Just having a rough week.
Me:
I’m sorry.
I hope something good happens for you this week.
Alice:
Same:
If it makes you feel better, I was just talking to someone else who's also having some Boy Joys.
Me:
Alice:
I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO CALL IT
Me:
It’s perfect