Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

100. The Timmy Show

CHAPTER 100

THE TIMMY SHOW

MARGAUX

LATER IN THE DAY

I get back to the apartment complex, but before heading in, I stop by the parking garage. I just have a feeling he’s done something to the truck. Entering the code to unlock it, I hop into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. But it won’t start. As feared, Timmy has done something to the truck.

I sigh.

I head to the apartment, and as I unlock the door, a familiar heaviness sets in. I’m bracing for what else I might find—for what Timmy’s impulsive behavior might have cost me this time.

My thoughts race toward the PR box items I know have been delivered—things I’ve spent my time and money carefully curating for my readers. I can’t bear the thought of them having being destroyed in one of his tantrums.

To my surprise, Timmy greets me with an almost subdued energy. His face is a mix of sorrow and exhaustion, his movements slower than usual. His recent self-inflicted injuries have left him drained.

I feel safe. For now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, almost childlike. “I never meant to hurt you. You mean everything to me. But you broke my brain.”

I look at him, my expression carefully neutral. I don’t rise to the bait. I won’t play the blame game.

He shows me his injuries. He’s scratched the back of his arm up, not the wrist side. And he has a couple of very minor scratches on his chest.

“The truck won’t start,” I say flatly, shifting the conversation.

He hesitates, and then looks sheepish. “Oh, yeah… I removed something so you couldn’t leave with it.” His voice trails off.

I sigh, my irritation rising. “Fix it immediately.”

Timmy nods and shuffles off to put his shoes on. I order him an Uber so he can head to the auto parts store to replace the part he didn’t just damage, but broke beyond repair. It’s always like this—a moment of chaos, followed by half-hearted apologies and promises to do better, as well as forking out money to fix whatever destruction Timmy has wrought.

While he’s gone, I take stock of the apartment.

Thankfully, the PR box items appear to be intact.

But my printer is broken, rendering me unable to print the shipping labels I need for my books, the top piece completely ripped off of it.

I notice items missing from the fridge.

What else has he done that I just haven’t noticed yet?

When Timmy gets back from the auto parts store, I confront him.

“You broke my printer,” I say, my voice monotone.

“No I didn’t.” He shakes his head.

I lift up the detached piece that won’t go back on.

“Oh,” he says, and looks down. “Sorry.”

“And my bougie nonalcoholic drinks?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“I got rid of them,” Timmy mutters, shrugging, not even trying to justify it.

The screen from the back window is missing again, his personal escape hatch for whenever he feels like disappearing.

I add the mounting damages to his ever-growing tab.

Timmy’s face is downcast as I do, but the promises come quickly. “I’ll pay you back,” he insists, his words hollow. “I promise. I really am sorry about all of this.”

I sigh. “I’m going to take my therapy session from the truck,” I say.

“What are you going to talk to her about?” he asks, looking concerned. “You probably shouldn’t mention what I did to the truck, because she’ll probably need to report it.”

What a curious thing to be worried about after all the things he’s done.

As I recount the events to my therapist—including, of course, what happened to the truck—she listens with unwavering support. Her guidance is clear but gentle, helping me see the reality I’ve been avoiding for way too long.

“I’m thinking of moving back into Downtown,” I say. “I feel isolated out here.”

She nods, but offers a nudge I wasn’t expecting. “What if you moved there without Timmy? You could still see each other, but have a space that’s yours.”

The thought feels impossible and freeing all at once. “Maybe,” I say, thinking it through.

“What would happen to him if you did?” she asks, as if reading my mind. It’s as if she’s pointing out how sad he is as an individual, that he’s relying on me to have a roof over his head. That if I wasn’t providing for him, he would have to mooch off someone else rather than hold his own head above water.

“He wouldn’t have a place to live,” I protest weakly.

“He’s an adult,” she says, gently but firmly. “The way things are now, you’re like a caregiver to him. He needs to figure out his own living situation.”

The guilt churns in my stomach. The idea of leaving him to fend for himself makes me uncomfortable, but deep down, I know she’s right. I’m just not ready.

I’m embarrassed to have stepped into the role of his caregiver. He’s not a partner, he’s a leech.

I think through what would likely happen if I followed her suggestion. The only people who would probably take him in are the bad influences we moved out here to avoid—which makes me feel extremely uncomfortable.

I get that this is part of a bigger issue, but my mind isn’t quite ready to fully admit it. Instead, I feel resistance and guilt and resentment.

We work on a safety plan, discussing go-bags and exit strategies.

My plan from here on out is that I’m going to remain calm, and not drink around Timmy. Hopefully his dad will stop sending him money for ‘soda’.

And if and when Timmy repeats the cycle, I have a strategy to get out quickly.

Her parting words linger long after our session ends: “Remember, you are a badass. Let’s check in next week.”

Back at the apartment, Timmy swings wildly between sweet gestures and exhausting self-absorption. He cleans the kitchen, makes me a cup of herbal tea, and heaps on compliments so sugary they feel calculated.

These small acts of kindness seem less about bringing me joy, and more about building a defense for himself—ammunition to later point to and say, ‘Look at the good I’ve done,’ as if it erases all the harm.

His primary focus, however, is no longer on me. He pours his time, energy, and attention into strangers, making it clear he doesn’t think I’m deserving of the same effort.

He beams with pride when praised by random beachgoers for picking up litter. “Two people said what I was doing was amazing,” he announces, fishing for validation. Yet, I’m certain he wouldn’t care about saving the world’s oceans if no one was there to notice.

Behind closed doors, the praise he craves vanishes, and his treatment of me shifts—indifference at best, cruelty at worst.

The cracks in our relationship deepen daily, the same toxic patterns playing out on repeat.

He interrupts my workouts, the one thing that helps me feel grounded and sane.

He complains when I take even a moment for myself, drowning out my focus with his incessant demands for attention.

Meanwhile, I’m drowning under the weight of financial pressure, providing for both of us, while juggling a mountain of overdue book deadlines. Still, I plow on with writing, hoping that focusing on something other than Timmy—something productive that I love—will let my brain unjumble itself and get me out of this fog I’ve been in for far too long.

I know this heaviness—it’s depression, creeping in again, pulling me further from myself. For months, I’ve barely set foot on the beach, though it’s only steps away.

It feels like I’m punishing myself, withholding the joy of this beautiful paradise because I’m too miserable to enjoy it.

There’s no silence in Timmy’s world—there is no down time with Timmy, no reprieve.

The Timmy Show runs 24/7/365, always centered on him and his erratic moods.

What Timmy wants.

What Timmy needs.

What Timmy feels entitled to.

Who angered Timmy.

Who hurt Timmy’s feelings.

Whether Timmy is hungry.

Whether Timmy needs to use the bathroom.

Whether Timmy wants sex.

Whether Timmy needs to have a cigarette.

I’m not even a co-star—I’m an unwilling extra, dragged along as he dominates the stage.

I feel like a shadow of who I was when I arrived here—strong, confident, alive. Timmy’s constant demands have chipped away at me, piece by piece.

I know what needs to change. I’m just not quite ready to take the leap.