Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

88. Tom Kha. Guy? AKA Soup Twins

CHAPTER 88

TOM KHA... GUY? AKA SOUP TWINS

MARGAUX

M y soul is screaming. I don’t even realize how loud until I’m sitting in the truck, away from him, with the windows rolled down and the ocean breeze brushing against my face.

After a few days of sobriety, he’s drinking again, and it’s as though the clock has rewound to the worst days.

Every promise he made, every step forward—gone.

Erased.

Back to the old patterns—running off to the tents, coming home reeking of cigarettes and booze, spinning lies to shift the blame for everything. My breathing quickens just thinking about it, the oppressive weight of it pressing down on my chest.

Today, I need to breathe. To feel like myself.

I leave the apartment complex, the tires crunching on the gravel of the parking lot as I pull out. Thai food. That’s what I need—something spicy and soothing, something just for me.

I imagine the lush flavors, the heat that lingers on my tongue, and the warm comfort it always brings me. Self-care comes in many forms, and right now, it comes in a takeout container.

Before I even hit the main road, my phone buzzes. I glance at it when I’m at a stoplight.

Timmy:

Where are you going? Are you going on a date?

I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening.

Me:

No, I just needed a break. I’ll be back soon.

Seconds later:

Timmy:

I can see by your location you’re meeting with someone.

I bite my lip, debating whether to respond. He’s being ridiculous. Paranoid. But the thought of trying to explain myself again is exhausting.

Outside the Thai restaurant, there’s a cat—a small, scruffy tabby perched on the sidewalk, watching me with wide green eyes. I snap a picture and send it to Timmy, hoping to lighten the mood.

Bad idea.

Timmy:

Who’s fucking cat is that?

How can you cheat on me?

You fucking slut!

My stomach twists. I can feel the frustration bubbling up inside me, threatening to boil over.

I sigh. This guy literally thinks I’m cheating on him if I’m in the bathroom for ‘too long’.

I give up.

Me:

I’m not cheating on you.

I’m not at anyone’s house.

Jesus Christ, can you trust me for just one minute?

Timmy:

You’ve been on the apps.

You’re meeting with someone.

You’re at some guy’s house.

And you’re sending me pictures of his cat.

Me:

That makes no fucking sense, Timmy!

Timmy:

You’d be so mad if I drove around and didn’t tell you where I was going.

Me:

You walk off all the time and are gone for HOURS without telling me where you’re going! It’s the same thing!

Timmy:

No! You’re off on some date! I know it!

I sigh deeply, gripping the steering wheel and forcing myself to take a few calming breaths. He doesn’t even need logic—he just needs a reason to lash out and hurl ridiculous accusations.

Me:

I’m getting Thai food. I’m hungry. You can have some if you want.

I’ll be home shortly.

The cat belongs to the Thai restaurant. So calm the fuck down.

By the time I get back, he’s standing in the kitchen, his arms crossed, wearing that sheepish expression he uses after he’s spun himself into a corner.

“Sorry,” he says. “I really thought you were meeting up with some guy. You were in what looked like a residential neighborhood.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “There’s construction beside the Thai restaurant. I tried to take a back road and ended up in a maze of cul-de-sacs. It took me a while to figure it out.” I hold up the bags of food. “This place is supposed to be really good.”

He nods, and I can see the guilt flicker across his face, but it’s quickly replaced with defensiveness. “You’ve got to understand, though. It looked suspicious. You would’ve been mad if I?—”

“Stop,” I cut him off. “You’ve got to trust me, Timmy. I have no desire to go off and date anyone else. Meanwhile, you’re the one who runs off to the tents to drink and smoke, disappearing for hours at a time, and yet you’re obsessing over me getting takeout. This isn’t okay.”

“Sometimes I need fresh air,” he mutters.

“So you go off and hang out with homeless people doing god knows what?”

He shrugs. “You’re the one who drove off in the truck.”

“To get food , Timmy!”

“Okay, okay. Let’s just enjoy the meal.”

The food is phenomenal—better than I imagined. The chicken laab is fiery and fragrant, the tom kha gai is creamy and rich with just the right kick of Thai chilis, and the pad Thai is perfectly balanced between sweet and tangy. The flavors awaken something in me, a part of myself that feels almost forgotten.

“Wow, this is incredible,” Timmy says, his tone softer now. “What’s in this soup? I didn’t think I’d like it because of the coconut, but it’s so good.”

I smile faintly, walking him through the dishes, their ingredients, their origins. It reminds me of ordering Thai food with my parents, the easy rhythm of family dinners where the biggest decisions were between green curry or red.

“It’s my go-to when I’m sick,” I say. “Extra spicy—it always helps with a sore throat.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Timmy says. “I usually go for egg drop soup. But this? This is something else.” He grins. “We’re like the same, but different.”

It’s such a small thing, but for a fleeting moment, I feel closer to him. Like we’ve found some shared connection in the swirling broth, something solid to hold onto amid the chaos.

I know we’re not the only two people who enjoy soup when we’re sick—it’s a very generic thing we have in common. It’s normal, and I’m craving normality.

I know it’s dumb even as I’m thinking it, but the mind works in mysterious ways—I’m okay being soup twins with Timmy.

But the peace is short-lived. The Thai food nourishes my body, but it doesn’t touch the deeper exhaustion—the bone-deep weariness that comes from constantly walking on eggshells, from always having to prove my loyalty, my intentions, my worth.

Timmy’s mood shifts again, his affection laced with possessiveness, his sweetness soured by control. I know this cycle too well. The brief reprieve, the calm before the inevitable storm.

And as I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, I wonder how much longer I can keep doing this.

I need space. Real space.

Not just a quick escape for takeout, but something bigger. Something lasting.

My soul is still howling—the soup is magical but not quite enough to fix that—and I don’t know how much longer I can keep silencing it.