The Fix Is In (Torus Intercession 4)

Benji listened to everyone, chatted with my mother about her beloved little dogs, and all three, even Toulouse, her Pomeranian, who was historically icy and snobbish, liked him. That, of course, made him an instant hit. The kids adored him, and I found that he could speak with authority on a wide range of topics, from anime to TikTok to music and, of course, the supernatural. My sisters were all enraptured, listening to him talk about ghosts he’d encountered and various other unexplained phenomena.

“You’re an authority on goblins, are you?” my brother Killian baited him.

“No,” Benji replied flatly. “I’d have to research them. But if you’d like to discuss demonic infestation, we could begin now.”

That shut him up.

Later, when Rory’s husband, Roshan, was explaining something to one of the kids, my brother Oran scoffed. Loudly.

“Question?” Roshan asked, clearly ready to tangle. After being in my family for any length of time, everyone, even Roshan, who was one of the most patient people I knew, became defensive and combative. And I couldn’t say it was them, my brothers, and not me, because it was me too. We poked and prodded, and when the other person exploded, technically, you won. Honestly, I was the least like that, but I was still a big-time button-pusher. Locryn had once turned to me and said flat out that one more word would get my teeth kicked in.

“You act like you’re the authority on different words, and why is that?”

“Because I have a doctorate in folk etymology, that’s why.”

“What even is that?”

“Something completely over your head,” he shot back.

But before Oran could attack, since everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to open fire, Benji chimed in.

“Oh, I doubt it’s over his head,” Benji assured Roshan, smiling kindly at Oran. “Folk etymology is basically the study of how cultural tales and myth influence how we use language, so you’re basically influenced by it every day.”

Beats of time passed.

“That’s what it is?” Oran asked Roshan.

Roshan nodded quickly.

“Why didn’t you just say that? It’s like why certain things have the names they do, right?”

“That’s right,” Roshan agreed, a trace of a smile there.

Oran nodded. “Okay.”

And that was the end of that.

Rory was next to catch me, this time when I was coming out of the bathroom. “Benji’s awesome,” he said seriously, his gaze holding mine. “Make sure he sticks around, yeah?”

“I’ll try my hardest,” I told my brother, who was only a year older than me and had been low man before I came along so had joined in wholeheartedly with the others in my torture when I was younger. Growing up, he had been my biggest bully and, outside of the house—at school, on a playground, anywhere else—the guy who would step in between me and anybody and anything. I both hated and worshipped him in equal measure. Him coming out to my parents as gay had let me confess to them my bisexuality without worry.

“Try more than your hardest,” he insisted, scowling at me with my mother’s eyes, his green the same emerald as hers. “Just make it happen.”

“You know relationships take work,” I told his retreating back.

All I got was his middle finger in reply.

My mother explained to Benji that she didn’t believe in ghosts and such, and he told her that was fine, and he was certain, despite their ideological differences, that they could still be friends. She hugged him really tight over that.

It turned out that Benji had been to Scotland, had backpacked through it the summer between high school and college, and told my father how kind the people had been. My father was normally quiet during family visits as he preferred to listen. But everyone paid attention as he and Benji compared notes on different parts of the highlands, local delicacies, and different words, denoted only by accent, that had tripped Benji up.

Niall caught me outside when I was taking out the trash. He was leaning on the railing of the back deck when I came from the garage, where the garbage cans were kept.

“What?” I asked, since he was staring at me.

“Your boy––”

“He’s older than me,” I corrected him.

“Your man,” he amended quickly, “he fits in well. He doesn’t take any shit, but he’s got a cool head and a kind way about him.”

Everything he said was true. “Yeah.”

“So,” he said, scowling at me, “don’t fuck it up.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not all on me and its brand new and––”

“He looks at you how Sophia looks at me,” he shared with a shrug. “So I know he’s yours to lose.”

I kept my gaze locked with his.

“Don’t lose him.”

After a moment, I nodded.

“Okay, good,” he finished, walking inside, not waiting for me.

If he’d waited, I might have passed out from shock.

When Benji and I left, every single person, even the kids, came and hugged him goodbye. And while they always hugged me, every last one of them, no one else, besides now Benji, could say the same.