64. Doing Thyme
CHAPTER 64
DOING THYME
MARGAUX
THE PAST
Boss: We’re going to go to lunch at the restaurant onsite.
Me: At the prison?
Boss: Yep. The inmates are the chefs. Well-behaved ones.
Me: Umm, that’s cool. Kind of. Are you sure the food is okay?
Boss: Yeah, it’s actually pretty good. I just avoid the creamy sauces.
Me:…
Me: Oh wow. That’s interesting. What’s this place called?
Boss: Doing Thyme.
THE PRESENT
When I get home, Timmy is back.
“You need to grow up,” I say, dropping my fanny pack on the nightstand.
He’s sprawled on the bed, his arms stretched over the cushion headboard like he owns the place. “You tell me all these things that are mean,” he pouts.
I roll my eyes. “Didn’t you say everyone else in your life says mean things to you, too? It’s not just me, Timmy. The issue is you . Change . I’m done with your ding-dong scenarios.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then sighs dramatically and gets up. Without a word, he drags a box into the living room and starts setting up the drum kit. It’s mine, bought during a rare moment of indulgence. I’ve wanted one for years, and it was a steal during Black Friday sales.
I shoot a message to Alice:
Me:
He’s putting the drums together, at least.
Maybe he can put his brain together tooooooo (petty mode HI).
Alice:
OMG, why drums right now?
Are you sure he isn't doing meth? It's so unhinged and unpredictable.
Me:
Yeah, I’ve always wanted drums. They’re mine. Got a good Black Friday deal.
Alice.
Well, at least he did the thing?
Hooray for drums.
About an hour later, the drum kit is fully assembled, but Timmy has been drinking while putting it together. I’m about to try it out when Timmy grabs the drumsticks, mutters something incoherent, and bolts out of the apartment like a child who just stole candy.
I groan and flop onto the bed. “What the actual fuck?”
About thirty minutes later, I see him walk past the window outside, the drumsticks still in his hand. He notices me looking and starts running, as if we’re in some absurd cartoon.
“Oh, hell no,” I mutter, shoving my feet into my flip-flops and storming out after him.
I catch up to him near the pool, where he’s casually swinging the sticks around like he’s in a parade. It’s a beautiful day as usual, so the pool area is packed, the loungers occupied by sunbathers and families enjoying the afternoon.
“Give me the sticks,” I demand, snatching them from his hands. Out of sheer frustration, I lightly tap him on the shoulder with one of them. Not hard, and certainly nothing that would inflict pain—the way you might tap a toddler who put their hand on the stove. Certainly not beating him with them. “Grow the fuck up, Timmy.”
“I saw that!” shrieks a nosy aunty from the side of the pool. “I am a witness! I’m telling security what I saw!”
Are you fucking kidding me?
Now I am the public ‘abuser’ for lightly tapping Timmy with the drumsticks that he ran outside with like a fucking child?
This is literally insane.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, storming back to the apartment.
This day cannot get worse.
The rest of the afternoon descends into chaos. Timmy is in rare form, doing everything he can to get under my skin as if the aunty’s verbal outpouring for support has emboldened him to push me further.
He criticizes the shows I watch, mocks the music I play, and holds his phone at an angle where I can see him fake-typing to imaginary women.
Finally, I snap. I lunge for his phone. “What the hell are you doing?”
We wrestle over the phone, a ridiculous pushing and shoving match that escalates quickly. “I’m calling the cops!” I yell, backing away from him. “This is insanity!”
But he’s faster. He grabs his own phone and dials first.
The police arrive within minutes. Timmy runs outside to greet them, waving his arms dramatically.
More minutes go by.
“Police,” a deep voice announces as there’s a knock at the door.
I open it, wearing only a sports bra and short shorts. It’s the same officer who chased Timmy over the fence the time I ended up with two black eyes—the one who arrested him when he found him eating ice cream at the 7-Eleven. “Hi,” I say, already exhausted.
“We’re taking you in,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“There’s been an allegation of domestic violence made against you, and you’re intoxicated. So we’re taking you in.”
“Domestic violence accusation—against me ?” I repeat, dumbfounded.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s saying you scratched him and pulled his hair,” another officer says.
My eyes narrow. “Are you serious?”
“Turn around please, ma’am, and put your hands behind your back.”
I roll my eyes and exhale sharply while I do as he instructed.
You have to be fucking kidding me.
He handcuffs me and—for some reason—let me keep my cell phone in my hands behind my back.
As they escort me to the car, I glance back and see Timmy smirking at me from a distance.
An officer helps me into the vehicle, protecting me from bumping my head.
As we pull away, Timmy continues to smirk.
I twist the cell phone awkwardly in my hands, and manage to dial Phil’s number. He answers on the second ring. “Phil, please help me,” I plead. “They’ve arrested me because Timmy said I attacked him. I didn’t.”
Phil sighs. “What in the world? How can we help?”
“I need to be bailed out,” I explain. “This is ridiculous.”
The officer turns around. “Hey, you can’t be calling people on your cell phone while you’re arrested.”
I must look ridiculous, my arms twisted up like a demented pretzel. Calling the enabler parents of the man who has actually abused me, because that abusive man has had me arrested on false charges.
What the actual fuck.
“Oh sorry,” I say to Phil. “Gotta go.”
I hang up, shrugging. “Sorry, I don’t know how this works.”
“You’ll have a chance to make a phone call from the station,” the officer says. “But first, I’m taking you to the hospital to get checked out.”
I lean back against the seat, the absurdity of the situation washing over me.
This is my life now—accused of domestic violence by the man who has actually abused me.
Yelled at by neighbors for lightly tapping a drumstick against a child in a man’s body.
It’s like a bad sitcom, except I’m the punchline.