92. Temu Timmy
CHAPTER 92
TEMU TIMMY
MARGAUX
“ I ’m going to go sell this chainsaw and bring you twenty dollars,” Timmy announces, his voice tinged with a rare sense of purpose.
I side-eye him skeptically. “Um, okay?”
It’s an oddly specific promise, but I’m cautiously optimistic. Perhaps this is one of those fleeting moments where he wants to contribute financially, to do something remotely responsible.
He disappears, chainsaw in hand, and doesn’t come back for over an hour.
There must be some fast and furious chainsaw negotiations taking place.
I send him a text.
Me:
Where are you?
Timmy:
I’ll be back soon.
When he finally returns, I’m immediately hit by the unmistakable stench of cheap vodka. His steps are wobbly, his grin lopsided.
There’s no sign of the twenty dollars he promised.
“Where’s the money you got for the chainsaw?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“What money?” His face is blank, his head tilting to one side like a confused puppy.
“You said you were going to get me twenty dollars.”
Realization dawns, slow and foggy. “Oh. I bought a bottle of vodka. Sorry.” His apology is anything but genuine.
“Seriously?” My voice is louder than I intended.
He meets my gaze, and his next words chill me to the bone. “Well, the main thing is the chainsaw is gone now. So I won’t be tempted to use it on you. You should be pleased.”
For the next few days, the emotional roller coaster reaches new lows. His intermittent compliments—rare and almost begrudging—are drowned out by a torrent of accusations and insults.
“I want you to help me be a better person. I don’t want to drag you down,” he says one moment, his tone earnest, almost vulnerable.
I’ve heard that one before.
Then, not ten minutes later:
“You are abusive and mean.”
Projection, much? Although I am becoming mean.
“You drive around blackout drunk all the time.”
Excuse me? No, I do not. Again, projection.
“Your friends aren’t real friends.”
Says the man who can’t name a single close friend who will willingly talk to him anymore. Except for the one skank, Thotimus Prime.
He’s such a Projecty McProjectorson.
“ None of your exes like you. All of mine love me.”
I only know a couple of his exes, and based on those the lie detector reveals… this is a lie.
“You’re a mean and nasty person.”
“You’re nothing like the characters in your books.”
Ouch. That one hurts the most. Writing is the one thing I have left that feels like mine, and he knows it.
“No wonder your family wants nothing to do with you.”
Double ouch.
I can’t hold back anymore. “That’s not even true! My family is tiny. And the only reason my half-sister stopped talking to me is because of you. Because I stayed with you . She doesn’t want the next time she sees me to be at my funeral because you acted crazy and killed me!”
“Whatever,” he scoffs. “There’s a reason none of them are in the picture anymore.”
His words drip with cruelty, each one calculated to hit the deepest part of my insecurities.
I’m fed up.
My voice is steady, but it feels like I’m holding my insides together with duct tape. “Your words can no longer hurt me, Timmy. You can say all the mean things you want, based on the things I’ve shared with you in confidence—as my life partner, as my supposed best friend—but you cannot hurt me. You’ve already said it all before, and—believe me—I’ve already told myself worse.”
“Whatever,” he mutters, but his eyes glint with malice. His voice takes on a mockingly casual tone. “That reminds me—I need to call my parents later. Check in on my mom and dad. You know, my parents that love me and who would do anything for me.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
His words echo in the space between us, and something inside me breaks.
I once thought I saw glimpses of the man he could be, the man he might have been before life broke him in ways I’ll never fully understand.
But now, I’m not even sure those glimpses were real.
And is that glimpse I thought I saw of him originally even that flattering in retrospect?
Did I love him, or did I love how he made me feel in those rare moments of light?
Because the man standing in front of me isn’t someone who loves me.
He’s a monster.
A demon who feeds on my despair, tearing me down piece by piece until there’s not a shred of me left.
And he’s almost succeeded.
Almost.
A FEW DAYS LATER
Sometimes, I just need to laugh. After a long day of feeling trapped in my own home, I decide to put on Bruno . It’s ridiculous and absurd—exactly the kind of humor I think might lift our spirits.
“This movie is awful,” Timmy whines twenty minutes in, crossing his arms. “Terrible! It’s really upsetting me!”
“It’s… a comedy,” I say carefully. “I thought you’d like it. It’s warped, like your sense of humor.”
“Nope! Nope, nope.” He stands, pacing the room. “This has ruined my mood. I was so happy before, and now I’m tense and upset that you even put it on.”
Before I can respond, he grabs his keys and storms out, the familiar cycle unfolding— cigarettes, the drug tents, and a return hours later, drunk and belligerent. I sit and wait, gray-rocking, refusing to engage when he starts hurling insults.
The next morning, we’re cooking breakfast when he flicks through the channels and lands on Bruno .
“Hey, this looks funny. Should we watch it?”
I blink at him, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What? It looks good!”
“You literally started a fight with me last night because this movie upset you so much.”
“Oh, did I? Haha, that’s kind of funny. You have to admit.”
I stare at him, seething.
He’s rewritten the narrative, as he always does.
But I don’t say anything.
Because there’s no fucking point.
I drink, to block out his mean comments more than anything, and he waits until I’ve had a couple, then starts a fight and mocks my drinking.
I monitor my alcohol intake so I’m aware of how much I’ve consumed, but then he refills my glass—often when I’m not looking, and then he starts a fight and criticizes me for having any at all.
On other days, I don’t drink at all, and he accuses me of drinking, and starts a fight.
One day, he walks into the kitchen and opens up a cupboard where my vodka is located.
Producing a Sharpie from a drawer, and without looking at the bottle, he says, “I can tell how much you’ve been drinking because you’re being a belligerent bitch. I’m going to draw a line to show how much I believe you’ve drunk of this bottle today based on your behavior.”
He draws a line low on the bottle, and I just stare at him.
I’ve had literally one drink, he’s had several, and his assessment is way off.
“Wrong,” I say. “Way wrong.”
He glances up, and what I just said is confirmed. There’s barely any liquor missing.
“Well, for someone who’s barely had anything to drink,” he sneers, “you’re sure acting like a fucking cunt.”
The next day, I don’t drink at all. I pour myself one small glass of vodka, but my stomach is in knots and I can’t bear the thought of the taste or the smell. So I just leave the glass on the nightstand that serves as a side table.
“You’re drunk,” he slurs half an hour later, after he’s had several drinks of his own. “You’re absolutely hammered.”
“Timmy,” I reply calmly. “I’m literally sitting here working, and I haven’t touched my drink. You are the one who has been drinking.”
“Whatever,” he sneers. “Stupid cunt. Watch your stupid fucking shows. I’m going out for a cigarette. And I’m taking this.” He grabs the half-full bottle and stumbles out of the apartment.
God knows when he’ll be back. Or what state he’ll be in when he returns.
This is awful. I just want to go back to the time when he was kind and sweet and fun. When the most important things in his life weren’t cigarettes and liquor. But I’m beginning to wonder if this is the real Timmy.
If the one that was focused on creating and working and producing a nice life for us was a sham.
Which would be a real shame, because I love that Timmy so deeply.
That Timmy is my soulmate.
I’m beginning to think I’ve received the Temu version of Timmy.
Temu Timmy.
The surfer who doesn’t surf.