116. Dear Chelsea AITA?
CHAPTER 116
DEAR CHELSEA: AITA?
MARGAUX
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT
W e head into town, and Timmy, for the moment, seems well-behaved. But his mood soon shifts.
“I feel like you’re dragging me to this show,” he says.
“Um, I told you I was going and that I’d get two tickets if you wanted to come. And if not, that I’d find someone else to go with,” I reply carefully.
He frowns, clearly unhappy at there being a Plan B. “Well, you make it sound like you didn’t want me to come.”
I sigh. “That’s not it. I wanted you to come. But I wasn’t going to force you. I really like Chelsea Handler, and would’ve gone whether you wanted to come with me or not.”
“Okay,” he sighs. “I’m just freaked out about it.”
I quirk a brow. “What aspect?”
“What if she picks on me?” he says.
“You literally told me you wanted her to pick on you,” I reply, confused. “You mentioned it so many times I even emailed Chelsea Handler and volunteered you as a target.”
“You did what?” he asks, his nervousness palpable.
“Oh, she probably won’t,” I say, brushing it off. “She’ll have a massive crowd and I’m sure she won’t single you out.”
He looks simultaneously relieved and disappointed—a perfect encapsulation of Timmy’s duality.
We get to the restaurant and sit down at the chef’s counter, watching as ingredients are chopped, sauteed and fried before our eyes.
“Can we order a cocktail?” Timmy asks, soon after we take our seats.
I glance at him.
Sure, what could one cocktail do?
“Okay,” I reply. “But just one.”
“Great!” he nods and smiles.
I pick out a classic daiquiri and he opts for a mezcal cocktail.
After a few minutes, mine comes out served up, and his is served in a tall glass filled with crushed ice. We take sips of each, and both drinks are boozy and flavorful.
Dinner is delicious—Asian fusion, with shared plates that we both enjoy—Vietnamese paté toast, garlic noodles, potato banh geo, manila clams in a tamarind crab broth, fried Brussels sprouts—even escargot.
“This is really nice,” he says, smiling as he assembles a perfect spoonful of clams in broth. “Thank you for bringing me here for my birthday.”
“You’re welcome!” I smile back. “It’s a nice evening out.”
But then he frowns. “I should’ve gotten a beer,” he says, his cocktail glass almost drained.
“Why? Don’t you like your cocktail?”
“It’s good,” he shrugs, “but a beer would’ve been stronger.”
I squint at him. “Timmy, this cocktail is much stronger than a beer would have been.”
“No,” he shakes his head, adamant. “It’s weaker. Look how much ice was in it.” He points at the glass which contains residual crushed ice.
I sigh, and woman-splain the basic math of alcohol content in cocktails versus beer.
“Well, I still want a beer,” he says, not budging from his latest fixation. “Can I get another drink now?”
“No, Timmy,” I frown, uneasiness creeping in, heartburn bubbling up in my chest. “We agreed on one drink. Let’s not make this a thing.”
He scowls. “I want a fucking drink,” he huffs.
I appease him. “I’ll get you a beer at the show, okay?”
His mood shifts instantly, and he smiles, squeezing my thigh. “Thank you, baby. I love you.”
After we finish our meal, we close out and stroll to the nearby theatre.
Once inside, Timmy immediately veers toward the bar. “You said I could get a beer, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “One beer.”
We climb the stairs and the bar comes into view. I immediately feel on edge.
We join the line, and as we approach the counter, his eyes lock onto someone ordering a double whiskey.
“What kind of beer do you want?” I ask.
“I changed my mind. I want that,” he says, pointing at the double whiskey.
“No,” I say, exasperated. “We agreed on beer, not whiskey.”
Without a word, he storms off, leaving me stranded.
Sheepishly, I exit the bar line and walk downstairs. I head to our seats, and eventually, he rejoins me. We sit together for a while, waiting for the opener to come on, but soon he bolts again. “I can’t do this!” he says loudly, jumping to his feet and barging his way out of the row and to the back of the theater.
What the hell is going on?
But I know exactly what is going on.
This is punishment.
For not giving in and buying him a double whiskey.
And for not just blindly accepting that he weaned himself off Anabusin—curiously two weeks before his birthday—without telling me.
For daring to enjoy something without making him the center of attention.
And now, he’s making it abundantly clear I’m going to pay for my ‘crimes’.
But there’s no way I’m buying into this shit. I’m not letting him ruin this for me.
I’ve been looking forward to this show for months, and I will be watching Chelsea Handler do her thing whether he likes it or not.
I sit, steeling myself.
About ten minutes later, Timmy returns, just in time for the opening act.
“I can’t handle being in big crowds,” Timmy says, sulking. “I can’t believe you dragged me here to this stupid show. I can’t handle places like this.”
I’m dumbstruck. Timmy— the attention-seeker of the universe —is… intimidated by crowds now?
The same guy who chooses to wear a Superman cape and a giant woven coconut hat can’t handle people… looking at him?
And I’m dragging him to this show that he volunteered to come to with me?
He sits, sulking beside me, as the opener comes out. She’s good, and I hear him chuckle at several of her jokes.
And then Chelsea herself comes out.
“She’s so close,” Timmy whispers in awe as her proximity to us.
She’s even more talented in real life than on TV. She’s brilliant. Even Timmy laughs out loud throughout her set, clearly enjoying himself despite his earlier dramatics.
After, he doesn’t let me stick around and potentially say hello and maybe even get a photo. Instead, he makes it very clear we need to leave right away.
We get to the truck.
“I can’t believe you dragged me to that,” he says, frowning. “I felt so uncomfortable the entire time. That’s why I ran out when I did. I was having a panic attack. I can’t handle crowds like that. And her humor was making me panic.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I get it—social anxiety can creep up on me, too—and I’ve had plenty of panic attacks in my time.
But this just feels so… manipulative. So calculated.
A last-ditch effort to overshadow my joy.
I mean, who can blame him?
This event didn’t center solely on him.
It was near his birthday.
I didn’t buy him an unlimited supply of whiskey.
A comedian told funny jokes.
There were other people at the theater.
He got to see an A+ stand-up comedian for free.
Who wouldn’t be horribly offended by all of these things?