Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

82. Eavesdropper

CHAPTER 82

EAVESDROPPER

MARGAUX

T he truck has been taken. Stolen, the keys left on the driver’s seat by the police officers who found it up against the fence with me inside.

And because the Cay has its own unique rhythm of chaos, Timmy eventually finds it abandoned on a random side road, as if whoever took it simply lost interest.

After roadside assistance makes us a new set of keys, Timmy surveys the truck’s interior. “The stereo gadget is gone,” Timmy announces, pointing at the conspicuously empty space where the Bluetooth adapter used to be.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “I’ll get us another one. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says, unusually forgiving. “At least the brake pads are still here.” He gestures at the back seat, where the unopened boxes of brake pads I’d bought are still neatly stacked. “Good thing they didn’t take those.”

A few days pass.

“The brake pads must have been taken by that guy you let into the truck,” Timmy says out of nowhere, his tone accusing.

I blink, trying to keep my voice steady. “They were still there when we found the truck, Timmy. I remember you pointing them out.”

“No, they weren’t. You let that guy steal them. They’re gone.”

My mind spins. I remember, as clearly as the sun rising this morning, Timmy showing me the brake pads, relieved they hadn’t been taken.

But now, he’s rewriting history in real-time. He’s done this before—traded or given away things, only to blame me when they’re mysteriously missing.

He must have sold them. Or swapped them for God knows what.

The man is insane. But more insidious than that, he believes his own lies.

He’s perfected the art of bending reality, leaving me questioning everything but the small fragments of truth I cling to desperately. This? This, I’m sure of. The brake pads were there.

But I don’t have the energy to argue. Not about this. Not anymore.

I nod absently. “Oh. Well, that sucks.”

And just like that, I let it go, and I go on about my day.

Defeated.

Ashamed.

Exhausted.

Over it.

Over him.

Over everything.

The past few weeks have left me reeling—emotionally shredded—as if someone grabbed the fabric of my sanity and ripped it into jagged pieces.

“They all hate you for what you did,” Timmy says one afternoon, his words as sharp as glass. “More people are stopping me in public places, asking me for money to fix the fence you ruined. Telling me how much you owe them. God, it’s so embarrassing for me.”

The weight of his words presses down like a physical burden. I feel mortified all over again. I can’t reconcile my behavior from that night—leaving the apartment, the whiskey-fueled haze, the moment I lost control of the truck and smashed into the fence. How out of character this whole situation is for me.

That wasn’t me.

That isn’t me.

I’m not the kind of person who yells at a partner or drives recklessly.

I’m not the kind of person who ends up in situations that spiral so completely out of control.

But lately, I’ve been doing things I never thought I’d do.

And any attempt to hold Timmy accountable for his behavior feels like shouting into a void.

Two weeks later, I have my intake appointment with my new therapist. I’m optimistic. Nervous, but optimistic.

It feels like a small chance to reclaim a part of myself,to process the chaos, to untangle the mess that is my life. God knows I need help with what’s going on at the moment, let alone all the trauma from my past.

I shut myself in the back room and log in to the session. My therapist, Kathleen, and her supervisor, greet me warmly. Kathleen is wrapping up her postdoctoral studies, and her demeanor is professional yet compassionate.

For the next hour, I tell them everything—or as much as I can fit into sixty minutes. Kathleen and her supervisor listen with interest—and perhaps a touch of horror—as I tell them about my less than conventional life.

The adoption.

My overbearing mother.

Having to get married when I was sixteen.

The abuse and sexual assault.

The death of my father when I was a child.

The toxic relationships.

My uncle’s death.

The stress of a high-pressure HR job and conducting multiple layoffs in a short time. My past traumas unfold like a grim tapestry.

I only briefly touch on Timmy, though—just that I’m in a relationship that has involved some abuse. There’s too much else to cover, and I need them to understand the full context of my life before we get into the present.

By the end, I feel emotionally wrung out, but lighter.

Later in the day, Timmy corners me.

“I heard you talking about me during your therapy session,” he says, his face dark. “You really threw me under the bus.”

My stomach drops. “What?”

“I heard you. You were talking shit about me.”

I squint at him. What conversation was he listening to?

“I barely mentioned you, Timmy… I just provided a little context to help us figure this out,” I shrug. “But I spent most of the session talking about my life before I even met you. While a lot has taken place since we met, our relationship is a short snapshot in the span of my entire life.”

“Did you tell her you crashed the truck, too?”

“Yes, I did mention that situation,” I nod. “And why were you listening to my intake session?”

“I couldn’t help it,” he shrugs. “I was going to the bathroom and overheard some of it, and then I just stayed and listened for a bit. You made me sound bad.”

I’m stunned. My ex would never have done something like this. Therapy was sacred—private—and he’d go into another room with his headphones on. But Timmy doesn’t seem to understand—or care—about boundaries.

Later, he comes out of his own therapy session and he’s glowing. Beaming from ear to ear. “I love you so much,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “She thinks I’m doing really good. She thinks we’re doing really good.”

LATER IN THE EVENING

Alice:

He spied on your therapy session? That’s wild. What a violation.

I hate him so much.

What would you tell your friend if she was going through this situation?

Me:

My hypothetical friend?

Alice:

Yeah.

Me:

I’d tell her to leave his stupid ass. She’s worth so much more.

She doesn’t deserve any of this.

He’s draining her dry—emotionally, spiritually, financially and physically.

He’s giving her nothing but pain, and gaslighting her into thinking it’s her fault.

Alice:

So why don’t you extend the same courtesy to yourself?

Me:

I don’t know. I feel like I owe the world something.

Like I’ve never been good enough.

Like everyone else has always had it together more than me.

Like I’ve been judged and been found wanting.

Alice:

You know that’s not fair. Imagine if you heard that being said about your friend.

Me:

All my friends have it together more than I do.

Alice:

Are you fucking kidding me, Margaux? You’re amazing.

And nobody has it together.

If it looks like they do, it’s make-believe.

Just like your posts which are always so aspirational and inspiring and make it look like you live the perfect life.

Me:

But I don’t.

Alice:

That’s exactly the fucking point, idiot.

Me:

Gee, thanks.

Alice:

Lol, I mean it in the nicest of ways. But you’ve really got to stop being so hard on yourself. We’re all just advanced monkeys, after all.

Me:

I’m pretty cute for an advanced monkey, I suppose.

Alice:

You’re fucking adorable. So get your head out of your advanced monkey ass and believe in yourself as much as you believe in your friends.

We’re all depending on you.

And you don’t owe us shit, but it would be appreciated.

I smile through my tears.

Me:

I’ll try.

Alice:

That’s the most we can ask for.

I love you, Margaux. I hope you know that.

Me:

I love you, too. Thank you for this.

Alice:

Any time.