74. Plot Twist
CHAPTER 74
PLOT TWIST
MARGAUX
I t’s days before Christmas, and I’ve finally reached the point where I’m mentally prepared to leave Timmy.
I should have left sooner, I know that now. Hindsight loves to tap you on the shoulder when it’s too late to undo the mess. It’s so hard to see things objectively when you’re in the middle of them.
But now, I can see clearly—this is unsustainable, unhealthy, and most of all, it’s incredibly unsafe.
Enough is enough.
I don’t want to be in a relationship where I have to have a go-bag at the ready, or where I need the number for the local domestic violence shelter saved in my phone under a fake name.
None of this is okay. Nobody should have to live like this.
The logistics weigh heavily on me. Where will I go? When is the best time? How will I escape his inevitable backlash?
But I have to tread carefully and time it right. Charges are still pending against me for the alleged hair-pulling incident that landed me in jail.
If I leave now, Timmy’s sure to retaliate. I can already hear the lies he’ll embellish for the courts, the smirks he’ll wear as he tries to destroy me—to make me pay.
So, I wait. Quietly. Strategically.
I’m sitting on the bed, steeling myself to get through the next few days—because goodness knows Timmy likes to ruin any events, including holidays—when I hear his voice, low and strained, talking on the phone across the room.
Timmy barely ever talks on the phone, other than to his parents.
This is unusual.
“Darren’s dead?” he whispers.
The words hit me like ice water, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Timmy’s face crumples, his tears falling freely as he listens to whoever is on the other end.
“I… I can’t believe he’s gone,” he murmurs.
I watch, frozen. I don’t know the circumstances, but it’s clear something terrible has happened. Darren, his estranged best friend, is dead.
“A heart attack or maybe fentanyl?” he says, choking on his words, his voice breaking.
I walk over to him and wrap my arms around him, rubbing his lower back.
His body shakes with grief.
Part of me hesitates—this is the man who’s hurt me in ways I’m still untangling. But in this moment, he’s raw and human, and I can’t turn away.
My escape plans are forgotten. For now, at least.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
I’d only met Darren a couple of times, and I know he wasn’t the most upstanding guy. But I know he was important to Timmy, and therefore, he was important to me.
But I’m also instantly on edge, even more than has become standard. There’s an automatic pit in my stomach that doesn’t stem from grief over Darren’s death.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Timmy, it’s that he doesn’t deal with even little things well. And this is no little thing—to him, it’s one of the pivotal moments of his life.
A best friend, dead.
And he’s going to act out.
And I’m going to be the one who bears the brunt of his grief.
Over the next few days, the fallout begins.
Timmy spends hours replaying memories of Darren, glorifying him as if their friendship had never fractured. It doesn’t matter that they hadn’t spoken in months or that their last interaction ended in a screaming match. In Timmy’s mind, Saint Darren is untouchable now. Canonized by death. Even Darren himself would say Timmy is laying it on a bit thick with the way he’s talking about him.
Every day, he cries and tells me the same stories. The good times. The bad times. The times that have been warped by his grief.
I try to be patient. I try to support him, even though a voice inside me warns that this is a recipe for disaster.
But his grief doesn’t settle into sorrow or even self-pity. It curdles into something darker—resentment. And I’m his lightning rod.
The first cracks show when I’m in the kitchen, making a snack and trying to give him space to process. I have a TV show playing in the background. Without warning, Timmy slams a pan down on the counter so hard it rattles the stove. “God, why do I have to be here?” he snarls, his eyes cold. “I’d rather be at work than stuck here with you. ”
I blink, unsure if I’ve misheard. But his tone is unmistakable—sharp, cutting, and full of contempt.
Then he crosses the room, turning off the TV with a deliberate click. “Why do you even bother staying?” he spits. “What’s the point of you? ”
My gaze shifts to the knife in my hand, and for a moment—just a split second—I think about what it would feel like to plunge the sharp metal deep into Timmy, the look of shock on his face as he bled out. But just as quickly, the thought floats away.
Instead, I just don’t respond. What’s the point? He doesn’t want an answer, just a target.
Another time, he tries to shove piping-hot bacon in my face. “Here, eat this,” he orders, his tone suggesting that eating this strip of bacon is somehow a test of loyalty or affection.
“No thank you,” I say, my stomach churning from stress.
He kicks his baby shark toy at me, his face a mask of irritation.
Two minutes later, he offers me a burrito, as if this small act of generosity will erase the venom that preceded it.
When I decline, his irritation boils over. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, storming into the other room.
I stand frozen in the kitchen, the words he doesn’t say louder than the ones he does. It’s not just anger at Darren’s death.
It’s anger that I’m still here .
Against all odds, Christmas Day is peaceful. Almost… enjoyable.
We cook a feast together—scallops, lamb racks, and pavlova topped with whipped cream and fresh fruit. We laugh at cheesy Christmas movies and spend time swimming in the ocean. For a few precious hours, it feels like the life we once dreamed of building together.
He gives me a Christmas card. Inside, he’s written a brief note:
I will be a good boy for you.
The words feel like a promise I know he can’t keep, but for a moment, I let myself pretend.
I let myself believe.
The illusion shatters the day after Christmas.
I’m consumed with dread over Darren’s upcoming memorial. Timmy’s grief isn’t just sorrow—it’s a volatile cocktail of anger, guilt, and denial. Every outburst, every erratic action feels like a storm brewing on the horizon.
The anxiety leaves me unable to eat. Every time I try, I feel my stomach clench. Most of the time, I end up vomiting.
Timmy, meanwhile, grows increasingly erratic. He continues slamming doors and counters, his frustration bubbling over at the smallest provocation. “Darren was the best guy I ever knew,” he says repeatedly, ignoring the reality of their broken friendship.
He spirals into the myth of Darren, each retelling of their bond painting a rosier picture. It’s as if his grief demands perfection, as if any acknowledgment of Darren’s flaws would make the loss too unbearable.
My body is weak from days of anxiety and little nourishment.
My mind is exhausted from navigating Timmy’s emotional landmines.
And I know the worst is still to come.