“I don’t get it,” he said, eyebrows pinched together. “Why do you have to choose?”
And it really was as easy as that. It took a second to get out of the habit, but I eventually stopped worrying about the question and just went with the cycles—and as I stopped worrying about it, I started to notice different things about the people I’m attracted to, and the sorts of things that connect them. Confidence. A flame inside of them almost, like they know exactly who they are, and no one’s ever going to be able to tell them otherwise.
“Ezra,” Leah says, “are you bisexual, too?”
Ezra’s a lazy drunk. He shrugs with a slow smile. “I honestly don’t care that much about labels. I mean, I know they’re important to a lot of people, and I can see why—I’m not knocking them. It’s just . . . I kind of wish we could exist without having to worry about putting ourselves into categories. If there were no straight people, no violence or abuse or homophobia or anything, would we even need labels, or would we just be? Sometimes I wonder if labels can get in the way. Like, if I was adamant that I’m straight, does that force me into only liking girls? What if that’d stopped me from falling in love with a guy? I don’t know,” he says again. “I get that labels can be important.”
“They connect us. They help create community,” Leah says. “I can see what you’re saying. If the world was perfect, maybe we wouldn’t need labels. But the world isn’t perfect, and labels can really be a source of pride—especially when we’ve got to deal with so much crap. I’m really freaking proud to be a lesbian.”
“Yeah, and that’s cool,” Ezra says, nodding. “I like that a lot. I just don’t really want to use labels for myself. I feel better without them.”
“Okay,” Leah says. “That’s your choice. I respect that.”
We all fall quiet, and it’s late. I can tell everyone’s tired, and my eyes are starting to close. My pocket buzzes, jerking me awake. Marisol’s texting on her phone from the floor. Fear spikes through me. What if it’s another fucked-up message on Instagram? I grab my phone and swipe the screen open. The notification is from Instagram—but this time, it’s not for my real account. It’s for luckyliquid95.
“You all right?” Ezra asks, nudging me with his knee. I give a distracted nod as I tap my phone’s screen. My image from the party, the streak of lights and blur of legs, got a like—and a comment. I sit up, excitement beating through me.
thekeanester123: Nice image. Really draws the viewer in. Also interesting that the subject is the watcher, but in a way, viewers are the watchers as well.
Jesus Christ. The rush of excitement is instantly gone. Of course Declan Keane would be a pretentious dick, even on Instagram.
“Felix,” Ezra says, “what’s going on?”
I hand him the phone.
“Oh, holy shit,” he says.
“What is it?” Marisol asks, leaning forward to see—but I shake my head quickly at Ezra. There’re two types of gossips: Ezra, the kind who’s all ears and happily listens to any and every sort of secret; and Marisol, the kind who spills all the secrets in the first place. If she finds out about my plan with Declan, he’ll know about it before dawn.
Mari notices me shaking my head. A shadow of hurt crosses her face. “Seriously?”
Ezra winces. “Sorry. This is a little too personal.”
She rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. “Fine. Whatever. I know when I’m not wanted.”
Ezra gives a halfhearted wave. “See you tomorrow.”
She blows a kiss at him. “Goodbye, my love.”
“I should go home, too,” Austin says.
“Same,” Leah says, jumping to her feet.
Austin hesitates, meeting Ezra’s eye. Ezra should probably get up and walk Austin out, after having his tongue down the guy’s throat for approximately an hour, but he stays beside me, blinking up at Austin. “Ah—I’ll text you, okay?”
Austin gives a half smile. “Okay.”
The three head out, and the door slams shut behind them. Ezra holds out the phone.
“Austin, huh?” I say as I take it back.
Ezra bites his lip, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, I didn’t really see it coming.”
“Is he a candidate for your new special friend?”
Ezra shrugs, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know why, but I drop it and turn my attention back to Declan’s comment, nerves starting to course through me as I read and reread the message. How do I respond? If I don’t answer his comment in exactly the right way, I might mess this up. This could be my one and only chance to get him to actually talk to me. Figure out a secret of his that I can use to fuck up his world.
“What’re you going to do?” Ezra asks in a hushed voice.
“I have no idea.”
He glances up at me. “I mean—you’re going to answer, right?”
“Yeah, of course. I just don’t know what I’m going to say.”
The two of us stare at the phone.
“Well,” Ezra says, lying down, “I’m going to bed.”
“Wait, what? Aren’t you going to help me figure this out?”
“Sorry.” His back faces me. “I can’t in good conscience help your evil Slytherin tendencies.”
This is news to me. “You were all for ruining Declan’s life a few days ago.”
“Yeah, but that was before I realized this is literally the sort of thing we could get arrested for,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me. “I don’t know, Felix. Maybe you shouldn’t do this.”
“Are you serious?” I say, anger rising. I almost feel like he’s betrayed me. “It’s easy for you to forget what Declan did to me, I guess—you weren’t the one he humiliated.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Ezra agrees, “but that’s where the school should come in. We should go to the dean or something. Not—I don’t know, this way-too-complicated revenge plan. It just doesn’t seem like it’s worth it.”
The anger snaps. “I’m the one he fucked with, Ezra, not you. I’m the one he deadnamed. The one whose old pictures he put up in a fucking gallery. The one he’s been sending fucked-up Instagram messages to. I’m the one who gets to say if this way-too-complicated revenge plan is worth it. Spoiler alert: it fucking is.”
“Okay,” Ezra whispers. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Neither of us says anything for a while. I can feel the anger swelling in my chest, my eyes stinging, and it’s suddenly a little hard to breathe. I know it’s not Ezra I’m really angry at. I shouldn’t have taken it out on him. The upstairs neighbor, probably still pissed about the party, starts stomping around and throwing shit on the ground. The apartment walls vibrate and echo. A car blasting the newest Drake song rushes by. I can hear Ezra swallow.
“What did you mean,” he says, “by fucked-up Instagram messages?”
I didn’t want to tell him, but I guess it’s out in the open now anyway. “I don’t know. There was this anonymous account, grandequeen69. They told me—I don’t even want to say what they told me. But I’m pretty sure it’s Declan.”
“Shit, Felix. Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. As long as I can take Declan down—it doesn’t matter.”
Ezra frowns, not meeting my eye. It’s obvious he’s back to thinking the same thing he had that first day: there’s no real proof that any of this is Declan, not really.
“It’s just,” he tells me, “I don’t want you to . . . I don’t know. Obsess over this?”
“Obsess?”
“Obsess over this, when you could be putting your energy into other things.” He twists to me, leaning on an elbow. “Like your portfolio.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I don’t need you to worry about me. I just need you to be supportive. All right?”
Ezra turns onto his back, staring up at his ceiling as there’s a particularly loud crash. “Okay. All right.”
I take a deep breath, swiping on my phone
again, squinting at Declan’s comment in the dim light. Ezra and I don’t argue often, but when we do, I try to move on and pretend it didn’t happen, and he’s usually on the same page. “Christ. What the hell am I supposed to say?”
Ez doesn’t look at me. Maybe he’s still a little mad. “I guess one way to get him to talk would be to ask a question, right? Declan loves talking about himself.”
“Yeah—you’re right,” I say. I immediately know what to ask. My fingers fly across the screen.
luckyliquid95: Thanks! Do you like long exposure photography?
I stare at the phone, waiting to see if he’ll respond.
“Felix,” Ezra says, “you’re obsessing.”
“I’m not obsessing.”
“You’re one hundred percent obsessing.”
I turn my back to him and hold the phone screen up, staring, waiting for a response—until, yes, I get a notification.
thekeanester123: Not usually. Overexposure can be a little overdone.
I roll my eyes.
thekeanester123: But you used it well.
I bite my lip, thumbs hesitating—I can’t take too long to respond, he might get bored of waiting and stop talking to me altogether, but I still have to be careful of what I say. . . .
luckyliquid95: What’s your favorite medium?
thekeanester123: It depends. There’s a lot that can inspire me. I don’t like to box myself in.
Still pretentious, but I can kind of understand what he means.
luckyliquid95: What’re some things that inspire you?
He doesn’t respond. “Shit,” I mutter, biting my lip, waiting, waiting. Maybe it got too late—it’s almost two in the morning now—and he decided to go to bed. Maybe he just got bored, and I asked too many questions. I can’t give up here. I try again.
luckyliquid95: I’m still trying to figure out what inspires me.
Ezra’s breathing softens beside me, and I know he’s fallen asleep.
luckyliquid95: I guess I just . . . haven’t experienced enough to make the kind of art I want to make. How am I supposed to make people feel things, if I’ve never felt anything myself?
A few seconds pass, and then:
thekeanester123: Yeah. I know what you mean.
My eyebrows raise at that one. Declan’s always acting like he’s the Second Coming. This is the first time I’ve seen even a hint of vulnerability from him in the past two years.
luckyliquid95: What sort of things do you want to experience?
I can’t help it—I hold my breath. This is the kind of question where Declan’s answer could tell me something he wouldn’t want anyone knowing—a secret I could use against him. But this is also the sort of question that might just take this conversation a little too far. Why would he tell something like that to a stranger?
But a second later, he responds:
thekeanester123: I don’t really know, to be honest. I guess not knowing is a part of it all. Not even knowing what experiences I need to live to be inspired.
Shit. He’s still a dick, but that’s a pretty good answer.
thekeanester123: What about you?
I swallow, hesitating—I know what I want to say to that question, but would this be taking the conversation over the edge?
I take a risk:
luckyliquid95: I want to fall in love.
I stare, unblinking, refreshing my Instagram every few seconds—but he doesn’t say anything else.
That’s it.
Plan ruined.
I can try again, but there’s little to no chance he’d respond if he was freaked out by my oversharing.
Fucking hell.
I toss my phone and lie down on my back with a groan. Ezra mumbles in his sleep and rolls over to slide an arm around my waist, nestling his head against my shoulder. His hair smells like IPA, and it’s too effing hot to cuddle tonight.
“Ezra,” I mutter, pushing him off.
He peeks open an eye at me, glowing in the blinking Christmas lights. “Felix. Jesus Christ. Why’re you still awake? Go to sleep.”
I close my eyes. “I can’t. I think I fucked up. He stopped responding.”
“Who stopped responding?”
Ezra is basically useless when he’s half-asleep. “Declan.”
“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and I think he’s fallen asleep again—until he says, “Declan Keane doesn’t deserve you.”
“What?” I look at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I would know,” he says. “I dated him for, like, almost a year, and I can tell you that he doesn’t deserve any of your attention. You’re too good for him.”
I roll my eyes. I can’t tell if he’s drunk, high, asleep, or all of the above.
“Can we cuddle?” he asks.
“It’s too hot, Ez.”
He doesn’t say anything. I think he’s sulking, but it’s too dark to tell.
I sigh. “Fine. But don’t lie down on top of me. You’re too heavy.”
He’s immediately at my side again, arm around my waist, IPA-smelling hair falling onto my cheek. He’s back asleep within seconds, but I have too many thoughts swirling through my head, too many dreams of Declan Keane and Instagram and that fucking gallery in the lobby of St. Cat’s. I sleep on and off, waking up every hour or so, sweating—it really is too hot, and Ezra’s managed to roll half of his body onto me, long legs tangled with my own.
When I open my eyes again, sunlight is pouring in through the window. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I grab my phone: 8:24. Fuck. We’ve got five minutes to make it to class on time.
I roll Ezra off me, jumping to my feet—but before I take another step, I see a notification from Instagram. My heart stops for a split second. I swipe, and my conversation with Declan pops open.
thekeanester123: I wish I could fall in love, too.
Seven
DECLAN KEANE WANTS TO FALL IN LOVE.
That’s the only thing I can think about on the walk to St. Cat’s. Ezra is still half-asleep, dragging his feet and moaning that he just wants to skip today. I’d usually be up for it, after staying up until three in the morning—but I can’t help but want to see Declan. Look at him, after the conversation we’d had.
Declan Keane wants to fall in love.
Is that a big enough secret I can ruin his life with?
No, probably not. But it’s still interesting.
“Hey, Ezra,” I say as we walk.
He grunts. “What?”
“Were you and Declan in love?”
He furrows his brow at me, and even behind his sunglasses, I can tell he’s glaring at me. “What the fuck sort of question is that?”
“I really want to know,” I say, defensive.
“Why would you want to know?”
I shrug. “After that message Declan sent . . .”
I’d told Ezra about the conversation, of course, but he’s been less than enthused. He sighs loudly. He’s never been much of a morning person.
“Love’s a strong word,” he says. “I don’t know. We liked each other fine enough, I guess. But he never said the words I love you.”
“Did you love him?”
“You’re being so effing nosy today.”
“Sorry,” I say in a tone that’s pretty obvious I’m not sorry at all.
He doesn’t answer, not right away—but then he says, “I mean, at one point, I thought, maybe . . .”
I clench my jaw. “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” he says. “I mean, the guy’s a jerk, but that was my first serious relationship. I don’t know. I guess I got all wrapped up in the feels.”
He flashes a smile at me for a split second, but even if he tries to hide it, I can still see the pain in the way he hunches his shoulders a little, the way the corners of his lips twitch. I nudge him with my elbow. “Well, you know—his loss and everything.”
“Right,” Ezra says.
Declan Keane wants to be in
love—and he may or may not have loved Ezra. It’s a strange thing to suddenly know about him. It was easier not knowing. Easier not to see him as a person with feelings, when he’s been such a piece of shit, putting my old photos up in a gallery and deadnaming me and sending me a fucking awful, taunting message on Instagram. Even when I’d thought we were friends—before he suddenly turned his back on me and Ezra—he never really talked about himself this way.
I glance up at Declan. He’s sitting at the table beside mine, as usual, and as fate would have it, the only stool open was just a few feet away from his. Jill’s giving us her usual morning check-in speech—today’s topic: love the craft, not the artist.
“It’s important to focus on the craft without knowing the creator,” she says. “Does it matter who the creator is? Should the artist’s identity matter when it comes to reviewing and connecting with a piece they created?”
“Yes,” I whisper to Ezra, “especially if the artist is an asshole.”
Jill’s head spins to me. It’s like she has supersonic hearing or something, I swear to God. “What was that?” she says with her over-friendly smile, excited that someone in her class actually has an opinion for once.
I sigh. Jill loves these early-morning debates a little too much. “I said it does matter if the artist is an asshole.”
“Why’s that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, isn’t all art a piece of the creator’s soul? If the creator is an evil piece of shit, doesn’t that mean we’re being influenced by evil in their work?”
Felix Ever After Page 7
