Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

26. Runaway Pickle

CHAPTER 26

RUNAWAY PICKLE

MARGAUX

W hen Timmy returns hours later, he plops down next to me as if nothing happened, the scent of saltwater still clinging to him. He doesn’t acknowledge the chaos of earlier, doesn’t apologize for the whirlwind he left behind.

Instead, he picks up the remote and puts on Pete Davidson’s new comedy special.

For a brief moment, things feel almost normal. We laugh at the same jokes, sit shoulder to shoulder, and I catch myself wondering if more moments could be like this.

But the peace never lasts.

Over the next month, the cycle becomes its own cruel ritual. Timmy runs away after every argument or perceived slight, only to return hours later with a token of remorse—a shell from the ocean, an interesting rock, once even a feather.

It’s as though these little offerings are meant to repair the cracks he’s left behind, but the weight of his apologies is featherlight compared to the damage he’s done.

Occasionally, there are outlier events that break the monotony of his tantrums.

One day, I do a phone interview for an HR role, sitting in the truck while Timmy stands outside, bouncing a ball like a child. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of it grates against my concentration, and I’m convinced the interviewer can hear it through the phone.

Afterward, Timmy makes an announcement. “I should get a job so I can pay you back for everything I owe you,” he says earnestly. “And because idle hands are the devil’s playground.”

For a fleeting moment, I believe him. But, of course, it’s all talk. Timmy makes no effort to find work.

Occasionally, he dives into graphic design projects, and some of his work is genuinely impressive. But his focus is fleeting, his drive non-existent, and never really leads to anything that can make an income.

Of course he doesn’t try to get a job.

Nothing ever comes of it.

He’s all talk.

I tell Alice.

Alice:

I imagine this man’s head is empty.

Her humor keeps me sane in a way Timmy never could.

The running-away episodes start to blur together.

One day, it’s because I refuse to buy him a Black and Mild.

The next day, he announces he’s going to spend hours snorkeling while I work. This angers me.

“I don’t pay rent out of my savings to fund you going snorkeling while I work,” I snap.

His reaction is immediate and predictable. He storms out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattle.

Me:

Alice, every time Timmy runs away, I’m going to send you a running pickle GIF. This one:

Timmy drinks as he drives, the cloying scent of Fireball mingling with the salty sea air. My stomach twists with anxiety as I watch him sip from the bottle.

He pulls over by a beachside cliff and starts ranting about something so inconsequential and random I can’t even follow. His voice is slurred, his words jumbled.

“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.