48. No Big Deal
CHAPTER 48
NO BIG DEAL
MARGAUX
THE NEXT DAY
“ D ad, Margaux is being a bitch again.”
Timmy has his dad on speakerphone, a smug look plastered across his face. He leans back against the counter like he’s just delivered the zinger of the century.
I stare at him, my jaw tightening as I brace for whatever spin he’s about to put on reality, how he’ll twist things around to make himself look like the victim this time.
Phil’s voice filters through the phone, calm but direct. “Well, son, you really need to get to work and make some money.”
Timmy’s face drops like a kid who’s been told there’s no dessert after dinner. It clearly wasn’t the response he was looking for. With a huff, he takes the phone off speaker and bolts to the back room, slamming the door shut.
Even muffled, I can hear his voice rising and falling as he rants to his dad. ‘She’ this and ‘she’ that. I know exactly what he’s doing—turning me into the villain to wring out some sympathy.
I used to care about how his parents perceived me. That need for approval gnawed at me in the early days of our relationship. But now? I’ve realized it’s pointless.
Timmy himself doesn’t even know where the truth ends and his lies begin. How could his parents ever form an accurate impression of me when their only source is a chronic fabricator?
It’s out of my hands and always has been.
When Timmy finally returns to the main room, his eyes are sharp and accusing.
I meet his gaze, unwilling to back down. “Your behavior is so gross,” I say evenly.
He glares at me. “I’m going to get you kicked out of here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because you called me gross,” he says. He storms off like an angry teenager.
I tell Alice.
Alice:
Where’s he think he’ll fucking go?
Me:
Lmfao.
That’s a good question.
Maybe to his parents. He’s all braggy because he has parents.
Must be nice.
It’s true. Timmy loves to twist the knife, reminding me that he has parents who will always be there for him. That he can call them anytime, they’re only a flight away, and they’ll pick up the pieces for him.
He knows it cuts deep because I don’t have that safety net. My dad died when I was sixteen, and I cut ties with my toxic mother in my twenties. He uses my lack of family as a weapon, a way to make me feel small and alone.
Alice:
Well, he can go there then.
And leave you alone.
I have a lightbulb moment.
Me:
I can go wherever I want.
I can literally go anywhere.
Alice:
Absolutely.
A WHILE LATER
Timmy has returned and has been keeping to himself.
Suddenly, a glob of spit hits my arm.
I freeze, the shock of it rendering me immobile for a split second.
He just spat on me from across the room.
Timmy’s face contorts into a reptilian sneer, and I feel bile rise in my throat. Most of his disgusting, tobacco-stained saliva has missed me, but a few droplets cling to my skin. My body recoils.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap.
He shrugs as if spitting on someone is the most natural thing in the world.
But it’s disrespectful, and it’s also assault.
I message Alice:
Me:
He just spat on me from a distance.
Alice:
No.
Timmy leaves again.
Me:
He’s so gross.
Maybe I’ll break up with him and go on a world trip.
Meet you in like the fucking Caribbean or some shit.
What a nut.
Timmy returns a while later, the sound of the door beeping sending a jolt of irritation through my body. Every time that door opens, it feels like the universe itself is mocking me—it’s become a giant trigger that causes a visceral reaction almost as intense as Timmy himself.
He’s holding a handful of grapes, a smug grin plastered on his face.
“You’re so abusive,” Timmy sneers. “And all you do is relive things from the past.”
“That’s fair about reliving things,” I say, suddenly guilty for bringing up Groupie McDesperate. After all, to my knowledge he’s not talking with her. It’s my problem that the whole situation with her is continuing to bug me. “But it’s because I’ve never really had closure from those things.”
“I haven’t been talking to that dumb bitch,” he says.
He comes over from the kitchen, grapes in hand, and starts trying to feed them to me. “Here,” he says, shoving one toward my mouth.
I try to push his hand away, but he insists, practically forcing it past my lips. I sigh and eat a couple, if only to get him to leave me alone.
Me:
He’s bringing me grapes.
Alice:
You’re Aphrodite now!
Me:
Apparently. She always was my favorite goddess.
Alice:
Understandable, you’re gorgeous.
Me:
Aweeee! Right back at you.
I always got called ugly growing up, and it leaves a scar, ya know.
I need to let a bunch of shit go. Working on it.
Kiwis are dicks, especially to redheads.
Alice:
Everyone is, but I think it’s because everyone secretly wants red hair.
Timmy returns to the kitchen and makes himself a cooked breakfast.
He doesn’t offer me anything.
“So I cooked you lunch and dinner yesterday and you’re not offering me food?” I frown.
“I brushed your hair,” he says, as if that’s somehow relevant.
“You brushed my hair twice, and I don’t need you to brush my hair. You wanted to do it,” I reply. “And what does that have to do with cooking breakfast for yourself?”
He glares at me. “You’re so problematic. You didn’t even want the grapes I gave you, so shut the fuck up.” He grabs the remaining grapes from the nightstand and shuffles back to the kitchen, leaving me momentarily in peace.
Alice:
He’s wild.
Dude.
Is this even what you want?
When he returns from whatever he’s doing, he’s holding a plate. On it is half a papaya, garnished with granola and yogurt, with a lime wedge on the side. It’s beautifully plated, and for a moment, I don’t know how to process the whiplash.
This morning he spat on me, and now he’s offering me a breakfast worthy of an Instagram post.
I’m so numb to the endless cycle of extremes.
I snap a picture and send it to Alice. And it looks so fucking delicious that I squeeze the lime onto the papaya and eat the whole thing.
Me:
I don’t know what I want.
I’m watching Below Deck and researching international trips.
I ate the papaya also.
They call it paw paw in New Zealand. Weird, right?!
Alice:
A FEW HOURS LATER
Timmy bursts into the room with a grin. “I challenge you to a dance-off!”
“A what now?” I quirk a brow.
“A dance-off. Come on, Margaux. Let’s go!”
Before I can protest, he pours vodka into a baby bottle, tipping it into my mouth like it’s a hilarious prank.
He’s erratic, but not outright mean for the first time in hours.
I guess this is better than the barrage of insults from earlier?
And, while I should probably decline his challenge, I’m clinging to the idea of something—anything—resembling fun.
He abruptly changes tacks. “Let’s go play Monopoly Deal at the pool!” he suggests.
I blink. “Okay… sounds… fun?”
It does sound fun.
Please let it be fun.
And I need to act enthusiastic so I don’t set him off.
“Give me two minutes to change into my bikini and then we’ll go!” I say, a forced smile plastered on my face, praying this upbeat phase lasts long enough to get through a game of Monopoly Deal by the pool.
Keep it steady. Keep things calm, copacetic, and everything will be okay.
My mind wanders to how much more fun it would be to play Monopoly Deal by the pool with Alice rather than Timmy.
Me:
Please come visit. Omg, imagine if you lived like two doors down.
I would bring you everywhere because I you.
Alice:
OMFG I would die. That would be so fun.
For the first time all day, I feel a flicker of joy imagining a life without Timmy in it—one where my friends and I can laugh and play and do ridiculous, harmless things.
One where I don’t have to explain my bruises or endure these emotional ups and downs.
One where I’m free.