57. Boiling Point
CHAPTER 57
BOILING POINT
MARGAUX
I t’s well into October, but because it’s Sunset Cay, the weather hasn’t really changed. Humidity still clings to me the moment I walk outside, pressing down on me like a gravity blanket. The sun sets a little earlier, but other than that the atmosphere is peak tropical vibes.
We head to downtown Sunset Cay for the annual Pride Parade. I’m excited, having gone to many parades when I lived back in DC. I even book a hotel so we can be responsible, enjoy ourselves, and not have to drive an hour back in the dark.
On the way there, I find a Pride playlist and blast it through the truck’s speakers. I’m thrilled, because it’s finally an event to look forward to, an occasion to feel positive about, an opportunity to be an ally and just enjoy something without all the drama or stress.
A friend of mine happens to be visiting from California for work, and we spend time with her and her friend, laughing and chatting and reminiscing about the old DC days. It’s a moment of lightness, another eye in the unending storm.
But, while I’m excited to celebrate and have a good time, my mindset in general is miserable. I’m apprehensive, and can’t help but think of our prior night out in Downtown, when Timmy threw an unprovoked tantrum and I ended up snoozing in the plants at a fancy hotel.
Later, the Pride event is fun, but the vibrant colors remind me of what’s become my dull existence.
People’s general frivolity reminds me of the darkness that’s consuming me day by day.
Timmy’s carefree exuberance serves as a stark reminder of how he usually treats me now.
So I drink way more than I should, because that’s just what I do sometimes to cope. Not a healthy strategy, I know. But what are the other options, really? In my current headspace, there are none.
I get way too drunk, and stumble my way back to the hotel. At one point, I make friends with a comfortable-looking set of stairs, and Timmy has to get somebody to help me to get in an Uber.
But Timmy is drunk, too.
When we get back to our room, he’s in a playful mood, and he’s doing something in the hotel’s mini-kitchen. I’m not sure what.
He brought snacks and supplies for making ramen with us, and after a few minutes I can smell the distinct umami aroma of one of his delicious broths.
I lie on my stomach on the bed, feet up in the air, scrolling through my phone while he putters about in the other room.
Suddenly, I feel his presence right behind me. “Ssss! You’re hot!” he announces, and a scalding pain sears across my ass and my leg.
“What the fuck?!” I scream, leaping off the bed and running to the bathroom, tears springing to my eyes as the pain blossoms across my skin.
I turn the shower to cold and step under the stream, desperate to cool the burning sensation.
In the background, I hear him laughing. Laughing.
He finds it funny.
The man who just poured boiling ramen water on me is doubled over in laughter.
“Why did you do that?” I look out from the bathroom, my voice shaking with pain and disbelief. “That’s insane!”
His laughter stops abruptly as his eyes narrow at the mention of the ‘I’ word, replaced by a chilling growl. “You’re not supposed to live,” he says, his words like ice water down my spine.
I’m too stunned to respond. I retreat to the bed, curling up with my knees to my chest, trembling.
He glares at me, his eyes devoid of remorse, before storming out of the room. The door slams behind him.
I grab my phone, my hands shaking as I type a message to Alice:
Me:
He just poured boiling water on me and ran off.
I’m not joking.
He said my ass was hot, poured water on it, and ran off.
Alice:
OH MY GOD
Are you okay?!
Are you burned? You probably are!
I don’t stop there. I text Phil, his father:
Me:
Your son just poured boiling hot water on me.
He is insane and needs serious help.
I screenshot the conversation and share it with Alice.
Me:
Just sent that to his dad.
Gotta do what you gotta do, yeah?
Alice:
Yes.
You absolutely need him away from you.
Before a serious injury happens.
A FEW HOURS LATER
He comes back like nothing happened, his swagger infuriatingly intact.
“You poured boiling water on me,” I say, my voice low and even. “It still hurts.”
“No, I didn’t,” he snaps, his expression one of exaggerated disbelief. “Stop making things up. You’re such a fucking liar.”
The gaslighting is the final straw.
A white-hot fury boils up inside me, eclipsing the pain. Without thinking, I shove him off the bed. He lands with a loud thud, his shoulder slamming into the closet door.
“What the fuck was that for?!” he yells, scrambling to his feet.
“What do you think?” I fire back, my voice venomous.
“I didn’t do anything,” he insists, doubling down. “And by the way, I think I might jump off the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it.”
I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “Don’t let me stop you.”
He glares at me, his face a mask of wounded indignation, before retreating to the kitchenette, muttering under his breath.
I sit on the bed, my body trembling with a mix of rage, pain, and disbelief. The absurdity of it all—the boiling water, the laughter, the gaslighting—feels like a twisted fever dream. This is my life now—absurd, horrifying, and teetering on the edge of chaos.
If this isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.