Fix by J. Mann (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📕

nowhere else to be.”

We look at each other with that sentence hanging between us, and so instead of just saying good night, I say, “And you’re already in the chair.”

He smiles, settling with extreme exaggeration into the seat. “I am. Already in the chair.”

“Okay, good night then.” The words stick a little coming out because it feels too weird to be saying this to him.

“Good night,” he says. “I’ll be right here, in the chair, if you need me.”

I nod super-awkwardly, and then get the hell out of there before anything else ridiculous can leave my mouth.

My room is warm, although I shut the door anyway. I even turn out the light, like he might be able to see me through the door. Shuffling over to my bed, I sit down on the edge of my mattress, not knowing exactly how to be with my mother gone and Thomas Aquinas sitting in my living room. Even the walls around me, heavy with my life, seem unfamiliar.

I rustle in my drawer, take out a half, and swallow—I am playing my telescope’s game now. I made the pact.

Listening to my heartbeat, I sit, frozen, waiting, waiting, waiting. I can’t bring myself to move from the edge of my mattress. To admit to living.

Finally, I move. Take another half. Why not. It’s over now. Whatever it is. And I sit staring out into all the universes swirling on my dark walls, my stomach swirling with them. Finally, it comes—the first sense of well-being since Mary Fay and her suitcase clattered through the front door.

Inhaling deeply, I roll onto my bed and pull my sheet and blanket up over the top of me and lie like I’m in a movie, flat on my back with my head squarely in the middle of the pillow and my arms folded over the top of the blanket. My eyes won’t close.

Because.

Thomas Aquinas is sitting by himself in my living room.

Although now I think about how Thomas Aquinas is always sitting by himself. In fact, I try to picture him hanging out with someone, anyone. Between class. Walking down the hallway. At lunch. Or even on the street. I can’t. He is always by himself. Even now, even on a weekend. Out there. In my living room.

As if he can feel me thinking about him, he clears his throat down the hall and it sends a weird bolt of electricity through me. I nervously glance over at my telescope. My eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark and I can barely make it out. It’s quiet… empty.

Turning my face back to the ceiling, I listen—wanting to hear him out there. I can feel him thinking about me. It’s… nice. I like him thinking about me. I lie in my film-sleeping pose, my hands resting across my chest on my brace, and stare into nothing. Nice. I think.

Nice.

Nice.

Nice. Beats my heart.

Yet I can’t remember now

what is nice.

The Roxy pumping

into my fingertips

my knees,

across the top of my head.

Minnesota.

The pact.

It’s not like the pact means anything. Minnesota is not disappearing. I’ve been checking its wiki page almost every day between episodes of whatever I’m bingeing, along with searching its news and weather. Nothing has changed. My mother is heading out to a state where nothing has changed.

I close my eyes and sigh, long and loud.

“You are not real.”

“I’m as real as you make me.”

His voice tickles

the back of my neck and

my lips curl into a

very large smile.

I hate him.

So much that I love him.

And oh my god,

I’ve missed him.

“Eve.”

He sounds closer than he ever has before. I keep my eyes closed, afraid he won’t continue talking if I open them, and I pull the covers tight.

“Then you’re not real.”

He laughs, and I can

feel it across

every inch of my skin.

“Words are sounds,” he says. “The sound is the meaning, not the words. And I understand yours.”

But then I hear her voice,

Fuck the hand.

And I know he’s right.

Words are just sounds.

“Who are you?”

Fuck the sadness for pushing its way through the Roxy. Fuck the Roxy for not working hard enough. I should have chewed.

“I already told you,” he says.

“The devil?”

“Do you really think there is one god, and his nemesis is a dude with a pitchfork?” he asks.

I think about god…

and the many nights I

prayed for him to fix me.

“And did you get what you wanted, Eve? Did Lidia?”

He’s never said her name before. I slowly open my eyes. And there, sitting in my desk chair, is Thomas Aquinas.

I clutch at my covers, pulling them up to my eyes.

“What are you doing in here?”

But then he smiles, and I know.

“You’re not Thomas Aquinas.”

I can feel my heart thudding against my brace.

“Who are you?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

“I thought we agreed on the human form,” he says.

He makes a move to stand.

“No!”

I don’t want him to move. I don’t want him near me. I don’t want this happening.

He leans back in the chair and folds his arms across his chest.

“Okay, Eve.”

The sound of his voice calms me. It always does.

“Really… who are you?”

“I am who you want me to be. It’s who I’ve always been.”

Now I’m pissed.

“I don’t want you to be anything. I don’t wa-want you to be here.” I stutter, because I know it isn’t true. I do want him here. I more than want him here. And he knows it.

I slip down into my bed, trying not to think the words I need you. Though I feel them. Everywhere. And I quickly close my eyes to hide it. My need.

For him.

For something that

doesn’t exist.

Raspy sobs

scratch in my ears, and

my body

jerks at my staples.

“Eve?”

He is near.

I can feel the warm

weight of him

like my brace

wrapping around me.

“Drink,” he says. He moves the glass to my mouth. Holding the straw against my lips. His fingers, rough.

I drink.

He takes the glass and sets it on the table, but he doesn’t move away.

“I didn’t,” I tell