Disclaimer: I don't own anything here (except for Al) and am just doing this for fun and to pass the long months until Season 4.
Al wanted nothing more than to chase after Tim and explain, but she couldn't be late for the intern interviews. She watched Tim get into his truck and drive away, hoping that he'd be able to calm down enough over the next few hours that he would let her explain.
Tim was hurt and angry. He didn't trust himself to be near her, didn't know what he would say or how he would lash out. He stopped at the grocery store on the way back to the garage and picked up two cases of beer, two bottles of Jack Daniels, and a microwavable Chinese dinner for Billy's lunch. He left the alcohol in his truck and went into the garage.
"Sorry, Billy, the Chinese place was closed."
Billy looked up, confused. "Why?"
Tim shrugged. "I don't know. But I got you this." He dropped the cardboard container onto the desk.
"Are you okay, Timmy? You don't seem too good."
Tim shook his head, relieved that he wouldn't have to lie to his brother to answer this question. "No, Billy, I don't feel good at all. Would it be okay if I took the dogs and went home for the afternoon?"
"Yeah, of course, Tim. Whatever you need. You going to be able to drive yourself home okay?" The concern in Billy's face made Tim feel guilty, so he hunched his shoulders and nodded without making eye contact.
"See you Monday, then," Billy called as Tim walked out, but he only raised a hand in acknowledgement.
Tim drove home and left George in the truck. He stuffed as many clothes as his could into two large duffle bags. He grabbed his toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and electric razor from the bathroom and dropped them into his backpack. He found his phone charger, his Ipod and his Ipod charger and put those into his backpack as well.
He felt like he was running away from home, like he had once when he was ten, just before his mother left. That time, he took a sleeping bag, his clothes, and his football and went to Jason's. He'd tried to just sleep in their backyard, but Mrs. Street had found him when she let their dog outside before she went to bed. She had him come in the house to sleep on the other twin bed in Jason's room, then she'd returned him to his parents the next day. His father wasn't home and his mother hadn't even realized he'd left.
Then there was that whole thing with Jackie and Billy, when he left after that. But for some reason, that didn't feel like running away. It just felt like leaving. Like his parents had. Just walking out the door and not looking back. He wondered what the difference between just plain leaving and running away. Maybe it was age-related. Maybe only kids could run away.
He loaded his bags, George's crate, and a giant bag of puppy food into the back of his truck. He returned to the house, debating leaving a note for Al, but he didn't know what to say and he knew the things he'd taken would act as a note of sorts. He got a dog treat and gave it to Bruno, rubbing his ears and whispering an apology for leaving. Then he got into his truck and drove away.
His only thought was to put as much space as possible between him and Al. Because maybe his dad was right, maybe there was no difference between them. And if that was the case, then he probably shouldn't be with anyone since he'd only end up hurting them. Better to end things now, make a clean break before their lives became too entangled.
Then there was the way their relationship had just sort of drifted into this weird twilight state, where they were together but keeping things from each other. He had forgiven her for not telling him that she was late, but only the first one was free. Whatever conversations she must have had with Walt to set up that meeting, and then whatever they were doing in the lawyer's office that resulted in his father leaving with a pocketful of money, well, he didn't know how or if he could forgive her keeping those secrets.
Tim thought about pointing the truck in the direction of New Jersey, to be with Jay. But then he realized that Six would probably just talk him into going back to Al.
He thought about what he wanted, about what would make him feel better. But he knew he wasn't going to be able to feel better. The best he could hope for was to feel nothing. He decided that all he wanted to do was drive fast on the highway and get to somewhere on the coast. South Padre Island, he decided, would fit the bill nicely, even if he wouldn't get there until well after dark.
He plugged his Ipod into the stereo, trying not think about how Al installed both the stereo and a hands-free cell phone setup for his last birthday present. He scrolled through his playlist to the one he favored for both driving and working out – a lot of loud, fast heavy metal songs that always made him want to push himself harder.
He got to South Padre Island about three hours after sunset. He drove around until he found a squat motel, right on the beach, run-down enough to look like something he could comfortably afford. He spent the first night sprawled on the lumpy bed in his motel room, one hand holding a bottle of Jack Daniels, the other petting George, who must have thought it was his lucky day to get to sleep in the bed for a change.
Tim watched crappy movies on an ancient, flickering television set as he drank the whiskey straight from the bottle. The liquor tasted slightly off, since it lacked the tastes he'd gotten used to in the Scotches Al liked. The absent flavors reminded him of Al and he missed her in a way he didn't think was possible...like missing a limb. He felt a tightness in his chest whenever he thought of her and the only thing for it was to drink faster.
He stayed up all night drinking, then slept all day, leaving his motel room only to take George on quick walks and to pick up something to eat. He repeated this pattern for the entire weekend. Monday morning, he was so completely shit-faced, he nearly felt okay. Or at least, he finally felt nothing.