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That bastard has been Cyrano de Bergerac-ing me.
“Shit. There’s a text from Carlo.” “What does it say?” I lean over to peer at the glowing screen. “What is that?” “Eggplant emoji.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “He thinks he’s cute. It means he wants to bone.” “No mention of me?” “Just dick veg.”
No, she’s playing a game. My lips twitch. I love to play games with Posy Santoro.
I know her perfectly. Better than she knows herself. She’s a tangled ball of self-doubt, foolish pride, dumb hope, brilliance, masochism, and blind affection. And I’m obsessed. I need her back.
I didn’t like it when she was gone, and knowing that she’s upstairs in my bed is unaccountably…pleasing.
If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve always been this way. I can’t remember being any different. Until now. Now, I want. I want Posy to wake up. I want to know what she’s thinking. I want to pick up what I broke and fit the pieces back together until she’s exactly the way she was—but I want her to still see me like she does now. The way I truly am.
It doesn’t make sense. Why should everyone else in the world be a Claymation and this one woman is live action?
When we first met, she wasn’t any different from anyone else except she played chess well. And then, one day, she won a close match, and she screeched, and I felt it. It wasn’t novel like a new smell or shade of color. It was like all the air in the world was suddenly tinted pink. Like a glimpse at a new dimension.
I can recognize feelings, but only Posy’s are real. Only Posy’s matter.
Posy Santoro isn’t in my system. She burst into life in my empty shell and made it into something. She is my system. Maybe I didn’t understand that before I lost her. I’m a man. I can be a cliché. Still, it’s true, and I know it now, ever since the moment I caught her. I don’t just get off on what she is—I need it.
