139. But Are There Strings Attached?
CHAPTER 139
BUT ARE THERE STRINGS ATTACHED?
MARGAUX
THE PAST
Father: I bought you the clothing you wanted.
Now, you need to come for a walk with me and the dog.
Me: But I don’t feel like it.
And I have homework.
Father: I did something for you.
Now you need to do something for me.
THE PRESENT
Dex is warm and attentive as he helps me settle into his spare apartment.
He gives me a quick tour, pointing out the essentials—the espresso machine, the quirky light switches, the Wi-Fi password scrawled neatly on a sticky note. He even mentions a few nearby restaurants and spots he thinks I’d like.
“This place is great,” I say, forcing a smile, genuinely happy but feeling overwhelmed and a little awkward about the situation.
“It’s yours for as long as you need,” he replies, his tone gentle but firm.
Then, just like that, he’s gone.
No hovering, no unnecessary lingering. He leaves me space, and yet I feel so profoundly seen and cared for that it’s unsettling.
A few hours later, there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find Dex standing there, a bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
“Here,” he says, holding them out to me. “A bagel from that place I was telling you about. Their everything bagels are amazing, and I remember you said you liked scallion cream cheese.”
I blink, stunned. “Thank you? How did you?—”
“You mentioned it once a while ago,” he says with a shrug, grinning. “And I filed it away. Oh, and this…” He lifts the cup. “Cold brew with a shot of espresso. No sugar, no cream. Just how you like it.”
My heart races, and not entirely in a good way. He got my exact order right, and I don’t even remember telling him.
“And I’m glad I did,” he adds, “because I saw the way your beautiful eyes lit up when you saw both the bagel and the coffee.”
I laugh. “That was because I saw you ,” I deadpan. “I… thanks,” I say, taking the bag and cup.
But the truth is, my mind is spinning. I’m in fight or flight mode from this gesture, and I’m trying to figure out his angle.
“Anyway, I just stopped by to give you these,” he says. “I’ve got to head into work for a bit, but I wanted to see you—even if just for a second.”
Before I can respond, he leans in and wraps me in a quick, firm hug. His scent—clean, woodsy, with a hint of leather—lingers as he pulls back and gives me a soft, lingering kiss on the cheek that makes my pussy clench.
“Okay, gorgeous,” he says with a smile. “I’ll text you later to figure out our next adventure.”
“Okay, bye!” my voice squeaks, and I watch him head down the driveway, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He stops to put on his helmet, then straddles his motorcycle and roars away, disappearing down the street.
It’s such a simple act of kindness.
And I don’t trust it.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper to myself, staring at the bagel and coffee in my hands. “What have I gotten myself into?”
LATER IN THE WEEK
“So let me get this straight,” Sophia, my new therapist, says, tapping her pen against her cheek.
I prioritized my mental health and signed up for a new provider the moment I could. We’ve had one intake session, and I like her already.
“You’re upset because this attractive, tattooed man brought you your favorite bagel and coffee, and that he remembered your order correctly?”
I frown, hating how it sounds. “I know it seems silly…”
She holds up a hand. “I’m not judging, Margaux. I just want to understand. Your reaction is completely valid, and I want to make sure we explore it fully. No need to apologize or downplay your feelings. Let’s dig into why this bothers you.”
Her calm, nonjudgmental demeanor soothes me, and I nod. “It’s just… with Timmy, every time he did something nice for me, there was a catch… like, he’d make me breakfast I didn’t even ask for and then expect me to gush over it like he was some Michelin-star chef. Which, to be fair, he was a decent cook. Made me dinner? Wanted accolades. But it wasn’t about the food—it was about what he wanted from me in return.”
Sophia tilts her head, listening intently. “It sounds like his gestures weren’t acts of love, but transactions. And those transactions left you anxious and wary. Am I right?”
“Exactly,” I say, my voice rising with emotion. “And it wasn’t just food. Cleaning the house? Oh my gosh—even if he was doing it while I worked sixteen-hour days and he didn’t work at all. He’d demand a parade in his honor, and expect to be able to behave however badly he wanted—to the point I dreaded every time he cleaned. If he made me a lei or brought me a shell, it wasn’t about making me happy—it was about earning points. And if I didn’t react the right way, he’d sulk or pick a fight. So now, whenever anyone does something kind, I’m just waiting for the catch.”
“I know your example is a joke, because you use humor to deflect. I enjoy your wit, but what did he actually do when he cleaned?”
“Well, he had a bit of a pattern. He drank when he cleaned. And he’d go and tidy some part of the house, and it’d be great at first. Super helpful to me because it’s hard to find the time when working, and honestly, I’m not the best at it.”
She smirks.
“But then he would come and kiss me in this weird way. It’s hard to explain, but it was almost like he was drooling on me. Just this messy, sloppy kiss with lots of tongue. A weird look in his eyes. He only did this particular thing during and after cleaning… and if I’d push him away or ask him to stop he would sulk, saying he was being ‘passionate’.”
She smirks. “Okay, go on…”
“And then next thing he would just have to have a cigarette. Or he’d have to go pick shells. Or he’d have to go for a really long swim. And he’d almost inevitably end up over by the guys in the tents for hours. And if he didn’t preemptively go and do those things just because, he’d start an argument as an excuse to run out the door. Every single time . He’d be mad about the show I was watching even when he had my headphones on, and he didn’t have to hear it. Oh my gosh, he’d even put the headphones on—which are noise-canceling—and he’d start talking about what’s happening in my shows that he ‘hates’, even when he was perfectly able to listen to music and not listen to anything in my show.’
“How did that feel?”
“Almost like he was keeping an eye on me and what I was watching, while pretending he was listening to music. It was just really… strange.”
“Well, his cleaning definitely sounds upsetting based on his behavior afterward. No wonder you were worried often when he cleaned. What else made you feel this way?”
“When he’d rub my back, he was always very careful to go a few minutes over the time. So say if we agreed on fifteen-minute massages, he’d give me one for like eighteen or nineteen minutes and then proclaim, ‘See what I did for you? I went way over, and you just stuck to the time. But I’m happy to do that because I love you.’
I’d feel instantly guilty, even though the real estate of his back is much larger, and my hands much smaller. I’d massage him to the point my hands hurt, often, and then he always wanted more later. ‘Pick my back’, ‘give me tickles,’ ‘pluck the hairs.’ If it wasn’t for getting satisfaction from plucking those hairs, I may have completely lost my mind. That part was cathartic.”
My therapist laughs. “Fair enough. There’s a reason shows like Dr Pimple Popper are so popular.”
I laugh in return. “It’s funny you should say that, actually,” I say.“‘Pop my pimples,’ he’d say. I never liked to do it, but I would because failure to do so would impact his entire mood. I even let him pop a couple of mine here and there. But I know some of this is common couple stuff. It’s not the action or request for action in itself. It was the complete, sheer lack of reciprocity. The entitlement that doing something one time for me resulted in an expectation it would be done every time for him. That he was somehow entitled to more physical affection and attention focused on him nearly every time.”
“And it sounds like you’re not done,” she says. “Tell me what else made you feel suspicious of kind gestures. You’ve already given me quite the list, but I have a feeling there’s more. Like the boss level of the video game.”
“You’re so right. It’s the fear of a grand gesture. He expected accolades and excessive admiration over the small things. And then when he did the odd major act—one very thoughtful thing—like helping me with my PR boxes and filming them on time-lapse… I knew he would never let me live that down. Every time we’d argue after that, he would point back to that day as evidence that he’s a really nice guy. He’d say I never thanked him even though I thanked him many, many times. Even though I told him I’d told my therapist about how kind and touching of a gesture it was.”
She nods. “Wow, I can imagine that type of expectation could place you immediately on eggshells. But what impact do you think it’s having on you now that you’re no longer in the relationship?”
“So now, I hold a perhaps unhealthy skepticism over any act of kindness. I think it will fade with time. But, for now, I’m stuck feeling like any kind gesture is a transaction or a trap. That it’s laden with some objective where the person wants something in return. Or that it will somehow be used against me in the future if the person inevitably misbehaves.”
She nods. “You mentioned that your father used to do something similar, but on a much smaller scale. Is that right?”
“Yeah, so I’d pester him for this or that—you know, normal teenage stuff. Track pants that were ‘cool’. Driving me here or there to do stuff with friends. Makeup. He’d always make me justify it, and then follow up basically with a, ‘Well, what do I get out of it?’ And then when he wanted something—like for me to accompany him for a walk or whatnot—he’d say ‘remember what I did for you, now you do something for me.’”
“And your mother?”
“Well, she would be crafty about it. She’d use points like these as evidence of the strength of our mother-daughter bond, and proof that we were best friends and that she needed to be able to tell me anything and everything and trust her implicitly. When she took me to Disneyland, it was really fun and I was grateful—I’ll remember it forever—but it was very much a, ‘Look what I can do and how amazing I am to take you here!’.
And I truly think she was amazing for doing that, but the part of being so excited to see it through my eyes didn’t ring particularly true. I just think she wanted to be told she was an amazing mother. That she could have gone anywhere in the world on vacation, but she selflessly took her daughter to a theme park.”
“And Dex’s gesture feels like it has a catch?” she asks gently.
I hesitate. “No… but my brain keeps telling me there must be one. Because why would anyone just… do something nice for me? Without expecting something in return?”
Sophia nods, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a conditioned response, Margaux. Timmy—and others in your life—taught you to associate kindness with obligation. You’ve had a life-long struggle to accept things—or even help. But here’s the thing—not everyone operates like that. Some people, like Dex, simply enjoy making others happy. No strings attached.”
Her words settle over me like a hug, warm and reassuring. “You really think so?” I ask, my voice small.
“I do,” she says. “But what matters most is whether you can start believing that, too.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way. But… holy shit, I think you’re onto something.”
She smiles. “I think you’re the one that’s onto something. I’m merely here to help you find your way.”
Later, as I sip on a refreshing glass of sparkling water, I replay the moment in my mind. Dex’s smile, his quiet confidence, the way he remembered my favorite things without me even realizing it.
Maybe he is different.
But even if he is, I’m terrified. Terrified of letting someone in, of opening myself up only to be hurt again.
I glance at Sabre, who’s curled up on the couch beside me, and stroke his soft fur.
“Baby steps,” I whisper. “We’ll figure this out. One day at a time.”