Author's Note: Thanks again to everyone who is reading, commenting, and saving this fic. It really means a lot to me. I am so, so excited to share the next few chapters with you all! A reminder as well that you can check out the Spotify playlist via the link on my profile page.
19. Fixer
LET ME START off by saying that I love my sister. For as long as I can remember, she's always had my back, from our time at the orphanage, to our reunion at the Lunar Base, to my early days in Deling, to now—through handfuls of high points and even more lows.
Ellone is what most people hope their big sisters will be: the rock that holds steady when there's nothing else to grasp onto, the anchor that moors as storms pass by. I depend on her for so many things: her generosity, her optimism. That sense of security I missed throughout my childhood (and yes, I know that sounds strange, considering how much I used to resist depending on others as a kid). But because of that reliance, there's not a lot I wouldn't do for her. This, though? This might just be the exception.
It started on day six of my suspension. Harper, for the first time in months, had me just, well, frazzled. It's not often that she tests my patience (which honestly makes me pretty damn lucky as the parent of a four-year-old), but because she'd been kept awake the night before by bad dreams, everything was out the window. She was just overtired, cranky, frustrated—and in turn, frustrating. Lunch? She didn't like how her apples were sliced. Toys? She couldn't seem to find the right one to play with. Our trip to the grocery store? Tears, all because I didn't grab the box of sugar masquerading as cereal.
Add on even more stress after I got a text from Rinoa, asking if I was leaving SeeD (because of course Adrian said something to her). I didn't know what to say, so I didn't reply. Instead, I just ran a billion stupid scenarios in my head, lies I could tell about my situation, excuses for leaving her on read, the consequences I'd face if I decided to tell her the truth.
By the time Ellone popped by, I was exhausted. She didn't have to tell me why she was compelled to visit; I knew Quistis had some involvement. My guess? She filled her in on what had happened with Garden, said some crap about being worried. Still, you'd think that someone with Ellone's level of empathy would know to just leave it alone. It was pretty damn obvious right from the start that I was not in the mood to talk about any of it.
For whatever reason though, she chose not to take the hint, because after a quick hello and a few basic warm-up comments, she got right into it with me. I can say with a reasonable degree of confidence that no one—I mean, no one—can lecture quite like my sister. She started telling me again how I needed to do more than pass the time, that I needed to find a way to occupy it. Of course, she wasn't wrong. I was just too fucking tired to really absorb what she was saying, especially when all I wanted was to smoke a joint and go to bed. I would have done anything to make it stop.
And that brings me to day eight of my suspension. Because getting her to shut up came with a compromise: that I would try more things, that I wouldn't just spend my Harper-less days idling alone. Was my concession born from a place of pure desperation? Yes. Do I have regrets? Also yes.
It's just that poetry slams are not for me. Not in the slightest. And that's not to knock Ellone and Giles; if they enjoy this scene, all the power to them. Maybe they're just more in tune with their feelings, more sensitive to the deeper meanings behind all these clumsily-worded metaphors. Like I've said before, I'm just more of a get to the point kind of person. Have something to say? Tell me in direct terms. I don't have time to dance around a bunch of embellishments.
Beyond that, I just can't get over the pretentious stink that permeates the whole thing, from the coffee shop staff that glares when you order a drip coffee, to the shitty bongo drummer who can't keep time to save his life, to the literal stink of the deodourant-free audience, right down to the poets themselves. Their overarching message so far: government is bad, Garden is bad, men are bad, women are bad, everyone is bad, and flower means vagina. Kill me.
At some point, Ellone hands me a bottle of kombucha, tells me it's good for my gut health. I don't have the heart to tell her the best thing for my gut health would be to leave before one of these poems makes me puke. The fizzy fermented drink is of little comfort on its own. Still, in the interest of trying, I slug it back, wishing all the while that it was something a bit stiffer.
I feel like a black smudge against all the flowy bohemian clothing and hemp jewellery, sitting in the corner of the room on an uncomfortable wooden stool. But if there's any solace I can take in the whole thing, it's just how happy my sister seems now, finally free of all the anxiety surrounding her power, no longer isolated and hidden away from the world. It just goes to show how much stronger she is than I am; she's risen above such incredibly difficult circumstances, cut through so much trauma. And she's done more than just survive or coast along; she's become a better person for it.
I wish I could be more like her. In lieu of that, I just try to be happy to have her company, even if it is at one of these godforsaken slam nights. And while most of the time I'm just grinning (or not) and bearing it, I do manage a real laugh when bongo boy gets so excited that his drum slips and knocks the mic off stage. It's the little things, right?
It is a relief when the final poet reads her last line, though. After that, it's a quick exit as I thumb at my pack of Malboro Reds a little too eagerly, lighting up a smoke the moment we step outside. Of course Ellone has to chastise me, and asks (for what must be the thousandth time) when I'm going to quit. Her eyes narrow into something like big sister concern despite her playful tone.
"Someday," I tell her through a smirk.
"What-ever, Squall," she says.
Giles changes the subject. "Is anyone else hungry?"
"I could eat," Ellone says. "Squall?"
I nod. I follow them up the block, watching as Ellone's fingers weave through Giles' for the short walk to the all-day breakfast diner. I feel a bit like a third wheel. I know neither of them would say that; if I gave even a hint, Ellone would most certainly reassure me that I was invited to come along, that she's happy I'm here. But even as we sit down in our booth, with the two of them on one side and me and my reflection on the other, I can't shake the impression that I'm intruding on something.
Maybe I'm just not used to it. It's been a long time since I've faced love like this. I'd almost forgotten what it looks like. But it's easy to recognize once it's sitting right in front of you. It's in the way my sister huddles in close to Giles; it's how he looks at her when she's not paying attention. Her smile at his quiet remarks, his laugh at her dumb little jokes. They belong together, truly; it's so obvious, even I can tell.
I wonder if I'll ever have something like that again. Holding hands. Sitting side-by-side in a diner booth. Private smiles and inside jokes. Part of me wishes, longs, hopes that one day, I will. But then again, maybe I'm just lucky that I had it at all.
—
WHEN IN DOUBT, there's always the record shop. I head down to Monterosa Vinyl to kill some time on day nine, because, well, why the fuck not? I have nothing else going on, and I'd like to think that putting on real clothes and getting outside (five days in a row, now) counts toward this whole "trying" thing. Casey looks up from his book—Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto—and gives me his standard half-nod greeting as I walk through the door.
He's got some obscure indie music playing over the speakers; a local band, no doubt. It sounds unpolished, a bit shrieky, and kind of try-hard. If you didn't know the guy, you'd think that he was trying to weed out anyone he doesn't want to be bothered with from coming into the shop. But having spoken with him a number of times now, I can tell you that it's actually the opposite. He is one-hundred percent into this abrasive shit, so much so that I'm sure he'll give me a rundown on the band at some point before I leave.
There are a few people milling about: a guy sorting through hip-hop albums while his girlfriend stares at her phone nearby, a girl with a bright green mohawk looking almost too obvious in the punk section, an older man about my father's age thumbing around the small selection of CDs near the back. It's not exactly busy, not by a long shot, but I guess that's to be expected. It is a Tuesday afternoon, after all; most people, unlike me, aren't suspended from their jobs. Poor them.
I always like to start off with my comfort zone when I'm here, peruse the usual suspects: The Beatles, Bowie, The Cure. And I know, I own a lot of these albums already. It's just kind of nice anyway, seeing them in a setting like this; it feels kind of like running into a good friend while you're out running errands—pleasant, familiar.
I grab a copy of Bowie's Low and examine the cover for a moment, that muted side profile of him staring off toward the edge. He was about my age while he was making it, a period that for him was mired in addiction and clad in fragility. I wish I could say it didn't resonate, but it does. My own issues with dissociation and dependency, feelings of spiralling out—it makes Bowie's story feel more familiar than not.
But that was then, I remind myself. Not now. I put the record back down, move along, to Foo Fighters, Radiohead, The Smashing Pumpkins. Casey's got a new copy of Siamese Dream tucked in between the endless rows of fraying paper sleeves. Fucking incredible. I haven't been able to find this album anywhere on vinyl; I'd originally purchased the CD when I was sixteen, but my copy got trashed by Seifer after one of many stupid fights we'd had around that age.
God, he was a dick to me back when we were kids. To be honest, I don't even remember why we were fighting that particular time. I'm sure I'd made some snide comment either directly to or about him, which, of course, would have set off his temper. What I do remember, though, is him grabbing my Discman, pulling the CD out, and stomping on it in one of his shithead tantrums. It was completely unplayable after that. I was choked.
The vinyl is a whopping 90G, but rarity, in my experience, never comes cheap. I take a picture of the price tag and text it to Seifer with the message, "You owe me 90G. Plus tax."
He replies almost instantly with a typical Seifer answer: "for that kind of money I better be getting a blow job"
I write back, "So that's how you're getting dates these days."
"fuck you leonhart"
Classic response. Love it.
I tuck the album under my arm as I continue looking up and down the aisles, moving from rock to alternative to new wave to hip-hop. The electronic section reminds me of Zurie. I haven't spoken to her since that night in Dollet. I don't know that I need to, though. As dumb as it sounded at the time, it really does feel like maybe that door has closed for good. I got the answers I needed, and the worst case scenario that I'd plotted out in my head—that seeing her would mean slipping down to the bottom of that rope all over again—never did come true.
Looking back, it's funny how much I'd built that thought up. The drugs and destruction were a brand I'd burned into my memory of her; I had essentially equated her to a catalyst for a fresh demise. What I didn't anticipate was the comfort of closure. And not only that. Understanding the reason behind why she left—to spare me from falling further, to save herself from the spiral—lifted a weight that I didn't know was there.
Having said all that, though, I still don't know if I can handle listening to electronic music again, at least not for a long time. All that heavy bass and synthetic sound has become inextricably linked with a time I'd rather forget, a period I'd spent fueled mostly by drugs. To hear a song is to long for all the wrong things: the MDMA, the blow, the ket, and all the other party favours that I grew to love and despise. And it's kind of sad, because there are some things about electronic music that I really like. I've just fucked up the wiring in my head too much to risk it.
As bad as that may be, pop is even worse. Not just because so much of it is objectively bad, but because Rinoa used to listen to it. All. The. Time. I can still picture her on our drives to Balamb, windows down and wind in her hair while she cranked Bye Bye Bye on the stereo. Or her swaying her feet off the end of the couch to Waterfalls as she studied for her GED. Or her cleaning up our suite while unironically singing the chorus to that god awful one-hit wonder, Butterfly, into the feather duster. They're silly memories, I know, but they always make my heart sink in the most mundane of places.
See, pop music creeps up on you. It's in the grocery store, in restaurants, in bars, in gas stations and convenience stores. I can't count the number of times I've been out buying smokes when one of her favourite songs comes on, and I'm suddenly forced to sit with the thought of all the things I've fucked up. I hate it.
God. I need to stop thinking about this. I shake my head, take my copy of Siamese Dream up to the register. Casey sets his book down and pushes strands of lank brown hair away from his face. "I was hoping you'd be the one to pick this up," he tells me.
I smirk. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," he says. "It was a fluke to even get a copy in stock."
"I used to listen to this album on repeat when I was a kid," I say as he tucks it into a paper bag. "My studying soundtrack during junior year at Garden."
"Garden, huh," he says. "What're you, like, a SeeD or something?"
Well, there's a downturn if I've ever seen one. I should have known better than to divulge that kind of information to him. I can't help but feel a bit embarrassed, although it's pretty hard not to when your career choice is synonymous with backroom politics and warmongering.
My response is sheepish, and a little meek. "For now," I say.
The wheels are turning in Casey's head—I'm sure the admission has knocked me down a few notches in his books. Finally, he says, "Never too late to get out, man." I'm worried for a moment that he might permanently sour on me, but then his expression shifts, his eyes lifting toward the ceiling. "Hear that band? They're called The Wendigos. Couple dudes from Gotland. They're playing at Moore's in a couple weeks. You should check them out."
"Yeah, might be an idea," I say. "Thanks, Casey."
He grins. "Later, man."
As I grab the paper bag and head back out into the cold, I notice the orange "for sale" sign sitting low in the window, and I quietly wonder if something else in my life is about to fall away. I do my best to shove the thought into a dark corner. Some worries, I'm coming to realize, are best left for later.
—
SEIFER TEXTS THAT evening and asks to meet. I can only imagine why he'd want to come by on a bland Tuesday night, but I give him my address anyway. Half an hour later, he shows up at my doorstep with a handful of cash—100.80G to be exact, enough to cover the cost of my Siamese Dream vinyl with tax. I roll my eyes.
"Put your fucking money away," I say.
"Make up your damn mind." He steps inside, takes off his coat and shoes. Meanwhile, his eyes are scanning all around the townhouse. It's the first time he's ever been here, and to say that my place stands in stark contrast from his would be the understatement of the year. He walks around my living room almost as though he's in an art gallery, stopping to stare briefly at my canvas print of Picasso's Le Rêve before moving on to the collection of framed and mounted band posters. A few to note: Alice in Chains, tour '91; The Beatles' Abbey Road cover; Stone Temple Pilots live with Meat Puppets. "Such a fuckin' hipster," he mutters.
"Walls not bare enough for you?" I ask.
He half-laughs and continues on his observatory tour, plucking photos off my shelves, helping himself to a closer look. Not one picture is set back down in the same spot. I'm not sure if he's testing to see how much it bothers me, but I hold my expression at bay. You know how it is with him: everything is a pissing contest. And at this point, you probably know how it is with me, too: I never want him to win.
Seifer grabs a picture of Harper, one I took last summer of her learning to swim in Laguna's pool. "Your kid?" he asks.
What a stupid question. "Nah, just some random child," I tell him.
He ignores my comment, opting instead to study her just a little bit longer. After a moment, he says, "She looks like you."
I shrug. "I always thought she looked like Rinoa."
"A bit," he says, "but definitely more like you. It's the eyes."
Seifer is probably the first person to ever say that Harper looks more like me than her mother. It might just be that he can't see for shit. Who knows when he last got his eyes checked? God knows my vision isn't what it was even five years ago. But then again, maybe he can see perfectly fine; maybe he's onto something else. It's entirely possible that there's more of me in my daughter than I want to admit.
I try to shrug the thought off as I head for the liquor cabinet. "If that's the case, let's hope for her sake that it's only my looks she's inherited and nothing else."
"Fingers and toes crossed," he says.
"Thanks." I make myself a whisky on the rocks. "So, did you just come here to pay me off and have a look around my place? Or is there a purpose to this visit?"
He sets the picture down and meets me at the island. "You gonna hoard that bottle to yourself?"
I laugh. "I see. You came to drink my booze."
A sardonic smirk cuts across his features. "I was bored. It was either come here or jerk off and pass out."
"Lovely visual." I pour him a glass, slide it across the countertop. "I'm not sure whether I should be offended by the fact that you chose to drop by instead of masturbate."
"Take it as a compliment," he says. "Besides, we can't all sleep with hot instructors."
"That is not a thing," I remind him.
Seifer rolls his eyes in the most exaggerated way he can muster. "Bullshit."
"It's the truth," I say as I take a sip of my drink.
"Listen, she's been in town, what? Not even a year, right?"
I nod. "She moved here last April."
"And you think that you've got the same thing going on with her that you had back at Garden?" He swirls the ice cube around his drink before knocking most of it back in one easy motion. "A student and his instructor? Or a commander and his subordinate?"
I frown. "How about a friend?"
"Sure man, whatever you say," he says as he pushes away from the island.
"Never fucking mind." I shake my head.
His attention is refocused once again, this time setting squarely on my record collection. He examines the gold metal rack, the stack of crates. "Alright, alright. Then tell me this: what was so important that you needed to spend 90G? You know you can download all this shit online. Or at least stream it."
I retrieve my new copy of Siamese Dream from one of the crates and put it onto the record player. "I doubt you even remember," I say as I drop the needle. The sound of drums rolls in, Cherub Rock spilling out the speakers. "We'd gotten into a fight and you took it upon yourself to stomp on the CD copy I'd had of this album."
Seifer's smirk droops a bit, an exhale passes through. "I remember. You'd made some comment about Rinoa, actually. 'Cept you didn't know it was about her at the time."
"I don't recall."
"Yeah, something about how you'd pity anyone who slept with me," he says.
I laugh. "Well, that's still true."
He shrugs. "I'd say ditto, but you keep claiming there's nothin' going on."
I take another swig off my drink. Nothing going on. I guess that's what I'm telling myself right now. Quistis has always been my closest friend, but Seifer—fucking bastard, as usual—can sense I might be lying to myself, at least a little. See, when I was living at Garden, I just couldn't really focus on her. There were so many other things going on: stressors from my command, dozens of problems always demanding my attention. Not to mention my failing relationship with Rinoa, Harper's birth, my issues with drugs, and then my spiralling year with Zurie.
Now that we're both here in Deling, though, free from all that distraction, free from that institutional brand of suppression, something has definitely changed between us. I'm not really sure when I first noticed it. The easy answer would be that night when we nearly hooked up with each other. Honestly though, I think something had started stirring inside me well before that. But is it purely attraction? Maybe it's proximity. I almost want it to be the latter. Things would just be far less complicated if it were.
Seifer kneels down, starts pulling records out much like he did with my pictures. The Colour and the Shape, With Teeth, Insomniac, Splinter. I'm not sure he recognizes many of them; he's never been all that into music to begin with, at least not in the way I have. When he does listen, though, it's usually hip-hop. I remember him carrying a copy of Nas' Illmatic around from class to class when we were younger. Sometimes he'd hum Life's a Bitch to himself when he thought no one was listening.
"Goddamn, you are such a fuckin' hipster," he spouts out again as he finishes flipping through my collection. This time, it sounds more like a declaration.
"Why do you keep saying that?" I ask. I'm genuinely curious.
He stands back up, polishes off the rest of his drink. "Guess this just isn't what I pictured your place bein' like. Kinda thought it would be, I dunno. More like Garden? Duller for sure."
I shrug. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Nah, it's good. Really." His smile perks up. It looks genuine, for once. "You finally have a personality, albeit, not my favourite, but at least you're working with what you've got—"
"—Fuck you," I say, "...and thanks."
Seifer makes his way back to the island and refills his glass. He's always acted like he owns whatever place he finds himself in; apparently mine is no exception. He turns to the fridge, stares for a moment at the drawing Harper made of Angelo, and then opens the door. "Got anything good?" he asks.
"What, am I feeding you now?" I feign something like exasperation.
"Giving you that compliment took a lot outta me," he says as he snatches an apple from the fruit drawer. He moves on to the pantry, scanning shelves, his eyebrow quirking at the strangest things—lasagna noodles, a container of popcorn seeds, coffee beans. His eyes narrow at the cereal boxes and oatmeal. How he can run through such a gamut of expressions over such benign things will forever be beyond me. It's kind of annoying.
"Done shopping yet?" I ask.
He sighs. "Hyne, Leonhart, for someone who smokes a pound of weed a week, you'd think you'd have better munchies lying around. This is pathetic."
"Sorry." I don't mean that, obviously. I could never have shit just lying around here, for the exact reason he'd mentioned; it's bad enough that I eat take-out two to three times a week. Hell, I've already put on an extra ten pounds since I've stopped training, give or take. Side effects of not wanting to think, I guess.
He takes a bite into the apple and retrieves his drink. Then it's a few strides before settling onto the couch. For a second, he looks almost as though he's unsure what to do with his legs. It's the first crack in his self-assuredness, and for me, it's amusing as all hell. I shake my head and laugh.
"See, this is called a sectional," I tell him. "Believe it or not, some couches don't have beds built in. You can put your feet on the floor or up—"
"—Shut the fuck up," he says as he debates the benefits of landing his heels on my coffee table or across the cushions. Finally, he sets them on the ground and leans onto his elbows. "Don't give me that boujee shit."
I take a seat next to him. "If this is boujee, then I'd love to see how you'd react to a five-star hotel."
His smirk returns, but it has a different feel to it this time, more sullen. "Been a long time since I've been to one of those. Seems like another life."
I know what he's talking about. That life. His time under her spell. To this day, that period remains the only time in our long history where I felt like maybe I didn't know him. I hated it. Because even though we weren't friends back then, I still cared about him in my own weird way. I didn't want to see him lose himself to something so utterly corrupt.
I take another sip of my drink and try to stop the quiet before it carries on for too long. "Overpriced havens for douchebags," I say.
He nods. He looks like he might say something else, but then his phone buzzes. A quick glance is enough to send his expression on another complete one-eighty. At this point, I might get whiplash from the myriad of moods he's put on display. The look in his eyes is downright mischievous now, and I'd be lying if I said my curiosity wasn't just slightly piqued.
"What are you grinning about?" I ask.
"Just someone I've matched with," he says as he turns the screen to me. "Not bad, hey?"
Gisele R. 26. 1km away. A conventionally attractive girl, blue eyes, long brown hair, tanned skin. And apparently very fit, which should come as no surprise considering she's a self-proclaimed gym rat. I flip through her photos: a bikini selfie on the beach in Balamb, snowboarding at Sorbald, drinks with friends. I sit back into the cushions and shrug. "She's cute," I concede. "You going to introduce her to your folding chair?"
"If all goes well, then yeah," he says.
"What about the server from your bar?"
He tilts his head back and exhales. "Let's just say I learned the hard way not to date someone you work closely with."
"Noted." I down the remnants of my drink. "Back to the revolving door, then."
"Don't knock it 'til you try it," he remarks.
I scoff. "Me? I don't think so."
Seifer's eyebrow makes a run for his hairline, his lips tilting into a lopsided grin. "Why? Getting laid too much already? Oh wait—"
"—You're an asshole," I say.
"Sure, but am I wrong?" He finishes his apple and tosses the core into my empty glass. "Because I don't think I'm wrong."
Of course he's not wrong. How many times has my head gone to those dark, dismal places, contemplating the very real possibility of being alone forever? By now, it should be pretty apparent that it happens more often than not. Still, the thought of putting myself out there online like that is, I don't know, awkward.
See, the handful of flings I've had since Rinoa have all started the old fashioned way: with a bit of liquid courage and my best attempt at flirting. Is it the most optimal method out there? Obviously fucking not; look at me. I'm still single, still lonely. But at least it spares me some of that exposure—there's only one person making her assessment at a time rather than however many hundreds (thousands?) of women swiping one way or the other.
I wave a dismissive hand. "I just feel weird about it."
"A hipster and a pussy-ass bitch," Seifer says. "Good combo."
I roll my eyes. My own phone buzzes. I retrieve it from the coffee table, open it up. There's a message, not from a girl, not even from a damn human. "Your mobility bill is ready. 110.87G is due by February 4. This is a free message."
I lob the fucking thing back down onto the table and pick up my smokes. "I need a break from…whatever this is."
"Aye, aye, Commander."
"Enough of that shit." I step out onto the patio and light up a cigarette. This is definitely one of the weirder visits I've received since coming to Deling. It might even be top five material, right up there with the very first time Quistis stopped in to tell me she'd moved to town, or the time Laguna came by to check on me a few days after being witness to my (hopefully) final Rinoa-induced bender.
And that's not to say that I'm particularly upset with Seifer's arrival. In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't come by my place sooner (and vice versa, for that matter), especially considering we've been hanging out for the past couple of years now. I guess it's never really come up; usually when the mood to visit strikes me, I want to get out of my house, not stay in it. So I meet him mostly at The Station or at some greasy place for dinner. He's particularly fond of this burger joint in East Deling; he always gets this ridiculous triple-pattied monstrosity aptly named "The Heart Stopper".
I wonder if he'll become like Quistis with his visiting cadence, now that he knows where I live; I'm willing to bet he's a big fan of the drop-in. Now it probably doesn't need to be stated, but I'm not all that big on people showing up unannounced (with Quistis being the sole exception). If I tell him that, though, it's probably just going to add fuel to his motivation, and then—
—Wait a fucking minute. I peer inside the window. Is he…is he looking at my phone? Goddammit. I snuff out my cigarette and head back inside. "What are you doing?" I don't ask so much as I demand to know.
"This your best picture?" he asks as he turns the screen my way. It's a photo Quistis took of me during my twenty-ninth birthday dinner at Laguna's house.
I snatch the phone from his hand. He's making me a dating profile. A fucking dating profile. "What the hell, man?"
"Don't tell me you're not just a teensy weensy bit curious about who's out there," he says.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction. I shake my head. "How did you manage this?"
"I don't give away my secrets," he says, taking a quick sip of his drink. This annoying shit-eater of a grin creeps up as he looks at me straight. "But if you must know, you forgot to lock it. And I can't be held responsible for your lapse in judgement."
"Haven't you heard of boundaries?"
Just when I think that his grin can't go any wider, it somehow manages to stretch. I swear his mouth could touch his ears if he tried hard enough. "I've heard of 'em. I just choose to ignore 'em."
"Well, I'm not in search of a fixer," I tell him.
He stands up, stretches his arms overhead. "Maybe not," he says, glancing over his shoulder to look back at me, "but maybe you need one anyways."
"Whatever."
"'Whatever' yourself. Just think about it." Seifer makes his way to the door, slips his shoes back on. The shit-eating grin holds strong. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date."