Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

44. Jealous Jim

CHAPTER 44

JEALOUS JIM

MARGAUX

I ’m watching another episode of Family Guy, the one where Peter Griffin develops a meth addiction. It’s ironic, given where I live and the sort of behaviors I’ve been subjected to lately. But the episode is funny, in that twisted, absurd way the show always manages, and I’m laughing out loud.

The thought of sitting around a table with the writers of Family Guy crosses my mind. What must that room even look like? Oh, to be a fly on that wall.

The door to the back room creaks open, and Timmy emerges. “Oh, you’re so loud,” he grumbles, glaring at me.

Says the loudest person I have ever met.

I roll my eyes and make no attempt to hide it.

I message Alice.

Alice:

Tim needs to stop everything he is doing.

Already giddy from the show, Alice’s comment sends me into another fit of laughter, one that bubbles up uncontrollably and makes my sides ache.

“What’s so funny?” Timmy demands, his tone sharp, as though my amusement is a personal attack.

“Life,” I reply, deadpan. The look on his face tells me he doesn’t appreciate my humor.

His eyes narrow. “You’re blushing. Who are you talking to? Who is he?”

Me:

Omg, so now you’re a man, apparently. I’m just mentally amused in a sea of his shit behavior.

LMFAO.

Ahahaha, he’s losing it because I’m texting you.

Alice:

Omfg, he can look at my profile pic.

Timmy scowls. “Are you having an affair? Who with?”

Me:

Apparently you are a guy, and we are in an affair.

Alice:

I’m a girl, Jealous Jim.

Timmy’s voice rises. “Who is it? Are you cheating on me? Who’s making you all giggly, seriously?”

I wave my phone at him. “It’s Alice. She’s a woman, Timmy. Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he mutters, shrugging with fake nonchalance. “I don’t care who you’re fucking. My parents are flying me back home tomorrow.”

This again. He’s been claiming this for weeks, but no plane ticket has materialized.

I’m not holding my breath.

I don’t respond.

“Eat your fucking bail,” he continues smugly, referring to the thousand dollars I forked out to get him out of jail after his DUI. “Good luck getting that shit back.”

Me:

He’s amused THAT I probably won’t get my $1,000 bail money back from his DUI.

Alice:

Jeez.

At least his parents actually got the ticket this time?

Me:

So he says.

Alice:

I hope they did. You need some distance from him. A different state would help.

Me:

He was so mad bc I was laughing.

But when I’m the most upset, I cackle… it’s like a nervous response.

Anyway, we should start planning our wedding.

Alice:

I mean...it's your life?

Me:

I meant your and my wedding.

Alice:

Okay, I'm more on board for that.

My guy might take it badly.

I laugh.

Timmy calls out from the hallway. “I’m going to punch you if you keep laughing at me, you stupid cunt.”

Me:

Oh, he just threatened to punch me.

Alice:

Nope. Electric chair.

911.

I’ve had enough. “Stop threatening me with violence,” I say firmly, my tone sharp but calm.

He scoffs. “Oh, you’re so fucking dumb. I didn’t threaten you. I was warning you.”

Me:

I’m apparently so dumb that I can’t tell a threat from a warning.

Alice:

Threats ARE warnings. The same in the eyes of the law.

Timmy stomps to the back room and slams the door.

Minutes later, he comes back out and I hear him leave the apartment, the door beeping as it closes behind him.

Me:

WTF, bro.

Timmy returns to the apartment, and goes to the back room for a few minutes. Then he leaves again.

Me:

A while later, he comes back again, and doesn’t say a word. He rustles around in the back room, and a few minutes later, he’s gone again.

Me:

Alice:

Yeah, he needs to make up his mind and be chaotic elsewhere.

A text comes in from Timmy:

Timmy:

I’m gonna walk to the rock and back.

I hope you can stop with the animosity.

I don’t know where it started but I want it to stop.

If everything you said you meant, I’ll leave and spare you dealing with me.

I would like to talk and hash out whatever this was… is.

I do love you Margaux.

I send Alice a screenshot of his message.

Me:

It comes from his behavior, not out of my ass. But I think he’s trying?

Alice:

He’s… I don’t know. These types of mental health issues are difficult to deal with.

LATER IN THE DAY

Yesterday, Timmy had insisted he wanted to ride in the truck with me to my job interview today, but he changes his mind at the last minute.

“I can’t,” he whines. “I have a splitting headache.”

Fine. I’m better off without him in the truck anyway. I don’t need someone to hold my hand there and back, and a few minutes of peace sounds heavenly.

But something feels off.

Before I leave, he stops me. “I need to admit something,” he says, his tone strangely sheepish. “You know how I sold my chop saw yesterday and said I’d give you the twenty to thirty bucks for it?”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah? What happened with that?” He had returned without the chop saw, but I also haven’t seen any money.

“Well, I ended up spending it at the store. I got a shitty bottle of vodka, hence my headache.”

Unbelievable.

But I’m too tired to be angry. I have an interview to prepare for, and I’m not wasting any more energy on this nonsense.

I attend the interview, and I have some reservations about the role. It’s something I could do in my sleep, but the industry is really uninspiring, and so are the executive leaders who interview me. The more I learn about it, the less I think it’s the right role for me.

And the more I think about it, the more it weighs on my mind that it’d be near-impossible for me to successfully perform a full-time job while in a relationship with Timmy.

He himself is a full-time job, and I’d be an anxious wreck all day, wondering what kind of trouble he’d be getting himself into while I was away.

Later, I drive Timmy to his therapy appointment, and I’m parked outside when the recruiter from my interview calls.

“They loved your experience, but they felt your outfit was too casual,” she explains. “Would that be an issue going forward?”

Are you kidding me? This job gave me red flags from the start—five days a week in the office, rigid executives who’ve worked together for nearly two decades, and a soul-crushing approach to HR. Picking on my clothing feels petty and unnecessary.

“I’m not sure I could work for a place that values appearances over capability,” I say. “It doesn’t sound aligned with the transformative approach I bring to HR.”

I’m not perturbed. It’s not even slightly disappointing. If anything, it’s a relief.

The universe is shoving me toward my dream of writing full-time, and away from the draining world of HR, and I’m ready to embrace it.

Timmy returns to the truck, looking depleted. “I talked a lot. I cried. But I feel like they bait-and-switched me,” he says. “I was supposed to have the main therapist lady, but now I have one of her students instead. She doesn’t have much experience, but hopefully, she’ll be okay.”

I nod, not sure what to say. The fact that he went at all feels like a small victory—enough to give me a little sliver of hope.

But I can’t shake the suspicion that he’s not legitimately concerned about the person allocated to be his therapist, and that he’s merely laying the groundwork for an excuse to stop going at some point in the future.

For now, though, he’s trying.

And that’s more than I can say for most days.