“Now that I see you, I have more questions than answers.”
He nods. “Me too.”
A trickling sound comes from behind us. He turns his head and then makes a quick start toward his tank. “Shit. The tank is leaking. Overfilled.”
“What?”
“Listen, Jules,” he says as he leans toward the bottom of the tank and flings a towel down from a small white rack, wiping the floor and Plexiglas. “You’re a better person than I imagined. If I were you, I don’t know what I would’ve done if I saw . . . well, me. But you can’t stay here. And you and I can’t be friends.”
“Why not?” I ask.
His jaw falls. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am serious. We were friends before. Why can’t we be friends now? Do you need any help with that leak?”
“No, I got it. I promise you. I’ve done this before.” He scrubs the ground aggressively, as if he’s trying to rub the wood right off the floor.
“Are you sure?”
He pauses, eyes down. “I’m not used to people in my apartment. Not anymore. Can you just . . . can you just leave?”
I don’t want to go. He hasn’t answered any of my questions. I haven’t asked them. But at the very least, I can understand this struggle. I don’t like people in my apartment either. The only person who’s ever been in there is Kate. The very thought deflates me like a pool float.
I rub my lips together, disappointed in the moment. I’ll have to figure out another way to get through to him. “Fine. I’ll leave. But I have one other question.”
He rubs his webbed hands over his bald head. Again, another very human gesture. “Yeah?” he says in a mildly exasperated tone.
I back up to the door, my hand on the knob. I know once I leave, I may never be allowed to come back. “What’s your real name?”
“I told you.” He looks down at the floor, where he’s squatting now, while tiny drips of water plummet from the tank. “It’s just Mack.”
“Just Mack. So you used your real name?”
“Did you?”
I nod. “Yes. My name is Jules. Short for Juliet. My mom had a whole thing where she thought I was going to be a famous actress.”
“Juliet.”
“But call me Jules.”
He stands and flings the towel back over the short rack. “Jules. Will you leave now?”
***
I can’t sleep, but what’s new? I’m not only thinking about Mack, but I’m also thinking about his tank. It was nearly the size of the entire wall, but surely there are limits to how much weight those floors can bear. His apartment is otherwise barren. No TV on the wall. No chairs or blankets or throw pillows. Does he sleep in there? Does he live in there? Because clearly, he can also be outside the tank.
So, what does it mean?
I get out of bed, tossing the blankets to the floor, and I sit at my desk to do some work. I’ve been running behind on my deadlines, which I’m usually fastidious about. But I’ve been so distracted lately with this Mack business. It’s like . . . how am I supposed to live life as a normal human now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen?
Nevertheless, I type away. A job’s a job.
The multiverse may include inhabitants of many different varieties. If one can conceive of an idea, it likely exists. Scientists, however, have no way to conduct an experiment to prove this hypothesis true or false, leaving much of the multiverse ideology to forever remain in the ether of the theoretical or the hypothetical.
I lean back in my chair. Damn, if only I could call up a scientist and tell them what I’ve found.
Even at the thought, my body recoils. Telling anyone is off limits. Mack is vulnerable. He’s literally a fish out of water. And I know what it means to be vulnerable. I know what it’s like to live a life that’s hidden.
Granted, I’ve already told Kate quite a bit, but Kate’s kind of a loon. A loon who would never . . . ever fucking snitch. I’d trust her with my own life. And god knows I don’t trust many.
I pick up my phone and scroll to the new contact I added.
Mackthefishguy is how I saved it. The only messages between us are the ones I sent earlier with the picture.
I just keep staring at it. Maybe it’s not safe to keep on my phone. But I want to keep it, as if it’s proof that we’ve had contact. As if it’s proof that our relationship existed.
Because now it feels like nothing but a dream.
Mack’s no longer on the forums. He doesn’t want me at his apartment. He doesn’t want to be friends.
And I’m not saying the guy doesn’t have his reasons.
But the more he pushes me away, the more I want to swim against the current right back to him.
What an odd feeling.
As if I’m practicing, I type a few words in the message box to Mack on my phone. I won’t actually send them; I just like knowing I could send them.
