89. The One Where He’s Chatting With Webcam Girls
CHAPTER 89
THE ONE WHERE HE’S CHATTING WITH WEBCAM GIRLS
MARGAUX
“ C heck out the movie listings. I pulled them up earlier,” Timmy says, handing me his phone.
I type in the passcode, and instead of movie times, his favorite porn site greets me. Displayed prominently is a video titled "Blonde Being Gang Banged by 6 BBCs."
I tilt the phone toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Um…”
“Oops,” he says casually, glancing at the screen without a hint of embarrassment. “Yeah, I just felt like looking at that earlier.”
I don’t necessarily care if he looks at porn. I do too, sometimes, and I know that what someone watches isn’t always indicative of what they want in real life. But it feels… off.
We’ve been having so much sex that I’m honestly surprised he even feels the need to supplement. He must have been jerking off while claiming to be taking a shit.
To each their own, I guess. But the whole interaction leaves a strange taste in my mouth.
Later that day, while Timmy naps, I decide to take him up on his open-phone policy. I open Instagram to check something and notice three profiles. His personal account, his graphic design account, and a third one I’ve never seen before.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I click on it.
The messages are shocking—a feed full of exchanges with cam girls. Explicit messages.
Transactions.
I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach.
“Timmy!” I gasp, shaking him awake. “What the fuck is this?”
“What do you mean?” He groggily sits up, rubbing his eyes.
I hand him the phone.
He scrolls through the messages, his expression a mix of feigned confusion and sudden realization. “Ohhh,” he says, nodding as though everything has become clear. “I let one of the kids from the tents use my phone. He must have added this profile.”
“You… let someone from the tents use your phone?” I quirk an eyebrow, incredulous.
“Yeah. Look at the messages—it’s not even how I type. You know I don’t use commas like that.”
I glance again. He’s right—the punctuation and spelling are different. It’s plausible.
“Fine. But please stop lending your phone to random people. And stop going to the tents. No good ever comes from there.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he mutters, already rolling over to go back to sleep.
The whole exchange leaves me unsettled. Whether it’s true or not, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story.
Later, I watch in disbelief as Timmy removes the screen from the back window and climbs out.
“What the actual fuck?” I whisper to myself.
How often has he done this while I assumed he was sulking in the back room? And why? We have a perfectly functional front door.
When he returns, I confront him. “You bent the screen. It’s brand new. The landlord is going to kill us. Why would you jump out the window? It’s not normal.”
He smirks, completely unfazed. “I’ll straighten the screen. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Why didn’t you just use the door?”
“Because I felt like it. Jesus, Margaux, you’re always making a big deal out of nothing.”
Over the next few days, the fights escalate over the smallest things—washing dishes, sweeping the floor, what we’re eating for dinner. Every time, Timmy retreats to the back room and locks the door.
One day, he shows me how to unlock it.
“If I lock myself in, you can always get in. Let me show you how,” he says nonchalantly, demonstrating with my debit card. He angles the card just so, and the lock springs open.
“See? Easy,” he says.
“Um… thanks?” I reply, confused. Why is he teaching me this?
A week later, after yet another fight over the dishes, Timmy stomps down the hallway to the back room. I hear the door slam and lock.
Then, the unmistakable sound of a drill.
“Timmy! What the fuck are you doing?” I yell, rushing to the door.
“Drilling the door shut so you can’t come in and bother me!” he yells back. “What the fuck do you think?”
“You can’t drill the door! You’re damaging the apartment! You’ve already destroyed so much stuff. Can you please not drill the door?”
“Too late!” he calls back, his voice carrying a smug undertone.
This is insanity. He’s the one throwing tantrums and creating chaos, but he acts like I’m some kind of villain, barricading himself in a room to ‘protect’ himself from me holding him accountable.
I sit on the bed, seething. I’ve been reduced to pleading for basic respect in my own home, and he’s treating me like a supervillain trying to breach his panic room.
The absurdity of it all would almost be funny if it weren’t my life.
I look out the window as a fishing boat goes by, oblivious to the chaos inside these four walls. This relationship feels like a sinking ship, and I’m strapped to the mast.
Every time I try to steer us to calmer waters, Timmy finds a way to poke holes in the hull.
He’s the storm and the iceberg, and I’m just trying not to drown.