115. What Do You Want? A Birthday Bender?
CHAPTER 115
WHAT DO YOU WANT? A BIRTHDAY BENDER?
MARGAUX
I n all, Timmy keeps up his sober, loving, helpful act for three-and-a-half entire months.
It hasn’t been perfect, but it has definitely been much better.
The screaming, the chaos, the fights—all of it feels like a distant memory.
And while he’s still moody and aimless, the absence of alcohol-induced rage has made life feel tolerable, maybe even good.
Timmy’s birthday is coming up, and he’s been dropping hints about how much he wants to celebrate, and he insists on going to the cinema.
He knows I hate movie theaters—between the thought of someone shooting up the place, the sound of people chewing popcorn and slurping soda like it’s a competitive sport, and the general grossness of it all, it’s my personal version of hell.
I much prefer watching movies at home, wrapped in the safety of my own space.
But it’s his day, so I agree.
When I tell him, his face lights up. “Really? You’ll come with me? You hate the movies!” he says, beaming.
“I know, but it’s your birthday. Pick whatever you want to see.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “ Longlegs . Nicolas Cage. Horror. You’ll love it!”
The movie itself sounds good. I’m not convinced I’ll love the cinema, but his excitement is infectious, and for once, I want to make him happy without reservation.
I book tickets, and the countdown begins.
And that’s not the only thing we’re counting down to.
I’ve been a Chelsea Handler fan for as long as I can remember. Her late-night show was a particular favorite. So when I found out she would be coming to Sunset Cay for a live stand-up performance, I didn’t hesitate—I grabbed tickets immediately. It’s coming up soon, and I’m buzzing with excitement, and cannot wait for the show.
Timmy knows how much I’ve been looking forward to this. He also knows it’s the day after his upcoming birthday.
“So you’re really making me go see some sexist comedian for my birthday?” he asks, his tone accusatory, as though I’d forced him into attending a public stoning.
“It’s the day after your birthday, silly,” I reply, trying to keep things light. “And it’ll be fun! You said you think she’s funny, too.”
He admits he does, in fact, find her funny, but his initial reaction says it all. Timmy’s ego feels threatened, as though Chelsea Handler herself has conspired to overshadow his birthday.
“Look,” I offer, trying to smooth things over. “We can go out for dinner before the show to celebrate your birthday. I’ll take you to that fancy place I told you about. You said it sounded awesome.”
It’s another effort to placate him, to make him feel like the center of attention—The Timmy Show, as usual.
Even though Chelsea Handler is infinitely funnier—and far more intelligent—than Timmy could ever hope to be.
On the Fourth of July, we have a wonderful day where we cook for each other.
We take a giant inflatable unicorn out into the ocean, and Timmy uses a broom to paddle us around the lagoon, the waves lifting us up and carrying us along as if we’re surfing. Turtles paddle by, and parents teach their children to swim.
It feels like this is how Sunset Cay was meant to be all along.
A few days later, Timmy’s birthday rolls around.
We arrive at the city’s cinema early, so we decide to kill time by strolling through Target. The store is buzzing with shoppers, the fluorescent lights making everything feel oddly surreal.
As we wander the aisles, Timmy’s phone rings. It’s Steve the Horse Cop.
“I had a dream about Darren,” Steve says. “He came to me and said he’s happy where he is.”
Timmy tears up, his voice wistful. “He hasn’t visited me in my dreams, yet. I know it’s because he’s still mad at me for how we ended things last time we talked. But I’m glad he’s happy.”
After they hang up, Timmy wipes his eyes, and we continue to stroll. He slows in front of the wine section, his eyes scanning the bottles.
“Oh, let’s get a bottle of wine for my birthday,” he says casually, as though this were the logical next step. “I really feel like a drink to celebrate. I feel like a nice red.”
I stare at him, trying to process. “Since when do you drink red wine? And... you’re on your alcohol medication. You can’t drink wine—it’ll make you sick.”
His lips curl into a smug smile. “Ah, well,” he says, stretching out the words like he’s delivering a punchline. “I took myself off that. About two weeks ago.”
The words hit me like a gut punch. He secretly stopped taking the medication that prevents him from drinking?
Two weeks before his birthday? Precisely the same amount of time it takes you to wean off the drug?
I blink at him, my stomach sinking. “You... took yourself off the medication that makes you physically incapable of drinking alcohol, exactly two weeks before your birthday?”
“Well, it wasn’t planned or anything,” he says, feigning innocence. “It just kind of happened. My pills ran out, and I guess you need some special prescription signed by a doctor to get a refill.” He shrugs. “I just didn’t bother. So now I can drink, and it’s my birthday! So can we get some wine?”
“No, I’m not buying you wine,” I say firmly, my exhaustion mounting.
“Please?” He tries one more time.
“No, we can’t get wine!” My voice is sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it.
My mind is reeling.
For months, things have been calmer, quieter. Not perfect, not even close, but manageable. And now this?
He pouts but doesn’t press the issue. The moment lingers, heavy and unresolved, as we leave Target and head for the theater.
The movie is absurd, scary, and surprisingly fun. I laugh and squeal at the jump scares, and Timmy laughs at me, holding my hand tightly through the most intense scenes.
We share popcorn, chips and queso, hot dogs, and a giant soda. For a while, it feels normal—like we’re just a couple indulging in a night out.
But while I enjoy it, my inner voice nags at me. Timmy’s calculated timing to quit Anabusin feels like the first domino in yet another of his schemes.
What’s he trying to do? Go on a birthday bender?
Or am I overthinking it, turning something innocent into something sinister?
I shove the thoughts down, forcing myself to focus on the movie.
For now, everything is fine.
Afterward, as we’re walking to the truck, Timmy’s mood shifts. His earlier cheer fades into something quieter, almost sulky. “Thank you for taking me to the movies,” he says, his tone tinged with petulance. “I know you don’t particularly like going, so I appreciate you making the effort.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling up at him, trying to stay upbeat. “Happy birthday! What would you like for dinner?”
He shrugs. “I don’t feel like going to a restaurant now. Maybe we can just get some Thai food.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “If you’re sure?”
“And maybe we could get some wine to have at home,” he suggests, his tone hopeful.
The words hang in the air, loaded with implication. I hesitate, the warmth from earlier rapidly dissipating. “Timmy, we’re not getting wine,” I say firmly.
He sighs, his shoulders slumping as if I’ve just ruined his birthday. “Fine,” he mutters, climbing into the truck.
On our way home, Timmy sulks.
All he can focus on is getting his next fix.
It makes me wonder what else he’s doing behind my back.
Later, I lie awake in bed, replaying the day in my head. The movie, the laughter, the moments of connection—they were real.
But so was the smug smile in Target, the calculated way he revealed his decision to stop taking his medication.
I try to convince myself it’s nothing. That he’s just testing boundaries, pushing for a little more freedom.
But deep down, I know better.
Timmy doesn’t just test boundaries—he obliterates them.
Tonight feels like the first crack in the fragile stability we’ve built over the past few months.
I turn to him, watching as he sleeps peacefully beside me, his face free of the tension that so often defines our days. I want to believe that things will be okay, that we can hold onto the good moments and leave the bad ones behind.
But the nagging feeling in my chest won’t go away.
I thought things were better. I thought he’d finally turned over a new leaf. Three-and-a-half months is a long time to keep up an act. To follow through on all the things he promised he would.
But this clearly isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.