Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

102. Happy Fucking Anniversary

CHAPTER 102

HAPPY FUCKING ANNIVERSARY

MARGAUX

T he tiki bar’s exterior lights flicker like fireflies, casting a nostalgic glow over the adjacent parking lot. The same place where Timmy and I visited when we first met now feels like a battlefield, its charm soured by his unpredictable behavior.

“I’m going to throw them in the water,” Timmy declares, holding the truck keys high. His hand arches back dramatically, and for a moment, I freeze, unsure if he’ll follow through.

I don’t hear the splash, but the industrial hum of the surrounding area muffles all other sounds.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, fumbling for my phone. Replacement keys will cost hours and hundreds of dollars, and I don’t even know if they’re retrievable.

Who does this? Especially on our one-year anniversary, which also marks my first year in Sunset Cay. He’s acting so childlike.

In my desperation, I call his dad. “Help!” I plead with Phil. “He’s threatening to throw the truck keys in the water. I can’t tell if he actually did it, or if he just pretended.” Before I met Timmy, I’d never had to call a partner’s parent before, but I have Phil on speed dial. He’s the only one with a chance of calming him down—his codependent flying monkey to the rescue again.

Through the phone, Phil’s voice booms. “Son! Do not throw the truck keys in the water!”

“But she upset me, Dad!” Timmy whines like a petulant child caught in the act.

“What did she do?” Phil asks, exasperated.

“She said I was trying to get a beer from some guy at the bar,” Timmy explains, his tone defensive.

Phil sighs. “Were you, son?”

“Well… he offered me one,” Timmy admits, barely audible.

“Why weren’t you spending time with your fiancée on your anniversary? You should be focusing on each other.”

Timmy stammers, “She brought up stuff I didn’t want to talk about.”

I interject, my tone measured but firm. “I calmly mentioned that this place reminds me of the time you texted Jennifer after you told me you’d never been here before. It made me feel weird, so I shared how I was feeling. That’s all.”

When we pulled into the parking lot, memories—and the associated emotions—came flooding back.

The way I’d felt like I’d been gut-punched when Jennifer pulled up the message he’d sent her during our date— I miss your crazy, aggressive ass. The way I’d felt when I found out he’d lied about it being his first time here, and that he’d actually been twice before with her. I wasn’t trying to start a fight, but I wanted to be honest about the way I was feeling.

I forgot I can’t do that with Timmy. Any comment that isn’t a compliment is taken as a personal attack, and there are always consequences. My bad.

Timmy huffs, his irritation mounting. “And then she was on her phone, scrolling, and found out some acquaintance of hers had a suicide in the family. That’s not anniversary talk!”

“You were busy chatting with a stranger about beer,” I counter. “So yeah, I looked at my phone, saw the news, and mentioned it. I didn’t think it would bother you.”

“What the fuck ever,” he growls, tossing the keys in my direction. “Dumb bitch.”

“Happy anniversary?” I reply, the bitterness palpable in my voice.

Timmy hops into the passenger seat and glares at me expectantly, clearly assuming I’ll drive him all the way home and abandon any remaining plans.

But I refuse to let him completely ruin the day.

I’m going to celebrate my first year in the Cay, with or without him.

I type an address into Waze, and head to the restaurant I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.

“Where the fuck are we? I’m not going in,” Timmy snaps as we arrive.

“That’s fine,” I say, masking the tremor in my voice. “ I am.”

“Fine! I’ll stay out here,” he sneers, folding his arms like a child throwing a tantrum. He’s playing some weird game of Restaurant Chicken and I’m not participating.

“Don’t touch the truck,” I warn, my voice low and firm. “If you vandalize it, I’ll call the police.”

He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t respond.

Inside, the restaurant is a sanctuary. Soft lighting, warm smiles from the staff, and the gentle hum of conversation replace the chaos I left behind.

The bartender chats with me about his dreams of moving to New Zealand with his girlfriend, subtly trying to make me feel less awkward about dining alone on what should be a romantic, celebratory evening.

The food is exquisite, each plate an edible masterpiece. For a brief moment, I feel a sense of peace.

Then Timmy appears.

He slides onto the stool beside me, grinning at the bartender as if nothing’s amiss—as if joining your fiancée for your anniversary dinner when she’s almost done eating is perfectly normal.

“Can I have a beer?” he asks me sweetly.

“Sure,” I say, exhausted but relieved that he seems calm—for now.

I push the last dish toward him, explaining what it is. He takes a bite.

“This is really good,” he says, his tone almost normal.

“Every other dish was good, too,” I reply. “If you’d come in earlier, you would’ve known that.”

He frowns, the defensiveness creeping back. “But you hurt my feelings. Bringing that stuff up wasn’t very nice.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I explain. “I was just sharing how I felt so we could talk about it. We need to be able to talk about things. Please…” I grab his hand. “You have to believe that when I bring up constructive things, it’s not with the intention of fighting or blaming. It’s so we can work through them, communicate, and understand each other better. It’s been a year, and we clearly still need to work on that.”

He considers my words, his expression softening. “You’re right,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “I love you so much, Marg. Let’s try to fix the rest of the evening and celebrate. Thank you for the beer and food. I’m so lucky to have you. I love you so, so much, my penguin.”

My heart aches with relief, but I know this is likely temporary. I kiss him back. “I love you, too.”

The waiter brings out dessert, a decadent dish adorned with “Happy Anniversary” in chocolate script. For a moment, I allow myself to savor it—the sweetness, the artistry, the acknowledgment of my milestone on the island.

But the thought lingers: Will it always be like this? Will every outing be a battlefield before it can be a celebration? Will he always find a way to ruin every milestone? Will I ever be able to bring anything up without there being consequences?

I glance at Timmy, who’s chatting with the bartender about the beer. He’s charming, charismatic—everything he was when I first met him. But the cracks in the facade are undeniable.

The emotional toll of constantly tiptoeing around his moods, of being unable to share even my mildest thoughts without fear of retaliation, feels like too much.

As I finish my dessert, the bittersweetness isn’t just on the plate—it’s in the realization that I’m holding onto hope for a version of him that doesn’t exist.