Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  “Obviously.”

  “Are you going to come to the march with me this year?”

  “Hard pass.”

  Ezra loves anything and everything to do with Pride month. He goes to the Manhattan parade every. Single. Year. He even stays from beginning to end, which I don’t think is actually possible, since the parade is, what, ten-hours-plus long? But he somehow manages it, live-texting me and posting pictures and videos on Instagram the entire time. The parade is just a little too . . . emotional, I guess? Everyone screaming, people crying, those freaking floats where people are literally getting married and having their first freaking dance—I mean, I don’t know. It’s just all a little much for me, but Ezra loves that shit. He says that the Pride March is a place of pure joy. Whatever the hell that means.

  “Fine,” Ezra says, not looking at me. “I might have someone else to go with this year anyway.”

  I frown at him. “Yeah? Who—your special friend?”

  Ezra doesn’t laugh this time.

  “No, shit—really?” I pause. “Is it Austin?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, we’ve been texting.”

  I don’t know why I suddenly feel so self-conscious, or why Ezra won’t even look at me. “How’s it been going?”

  Ezra shrugs again. “I don’t know if it’ll actually go anywhere. He asked me to meet up with him sometime this week. I guess I figured, why not?”

  I’m still frowning as I turn to look up at the sky. The day’s suddenly not as relaxing anymore. Austin is in our classes, but we’ve never really hung out a lot before. He’s just always been there, following Leah and Marisol around. And now, suddenly, he might be Ezra’s new special friend? I’m happy for Ezra—at least, I should be. This is his first maybe-boyfriend since Declan, and that was a couple years ago now. But I can’t help the twinge of jealousy, either. It seems like everyone around me is always falling in love.

  “Don’t worry,” Ezra says. “You’re still my number one.”

  “Who’s worried? I’m not worried.”

  He snorts. We sit in silence for a while, but it isn’t the calm silence that I’m used to having with Ezra. It’s the sort where we’ve clearly both got a lot on our minds, words on the tips of our tongues, but neither of us is saying anything. It’s a little awkward.

  I start to feel sick from the rocking motion on the swings and all that beer in my otherwise empty stomach, so we lie back down again. The sun gets hot enough and the grass feels soft enough that when I close my eyes, I can feel myself drifting in and out of sleep. I have random dreams where I don’t know if I’m awake, dreams of an Instagram gallery and Declan Keane buying my paintings and Ezra saying that he loves me. By the time I wake up, the sun’s almost down, the sky purple with streaks of red clouds. Ezra’s on his back, scrolling through his phone.

  “You’re awake,” Ezra says, his voice low and grumbly enough that I know he probably just woke up from a nap himself.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, stretching and rolling onto my back.

  “I got a text from my mom,” Ezra says, and I glance his way, catching the pinch in his eyebrows. “She and my dad are back in the city for the night and want me home for some dinner party.”

  “Oh,” I say, sitting up.

  Ezra shakes his head. “I should be more excited to see my own parents, right?”

  I’m not about to tell Ezra how he should and shouldn’t feel. “I don’t know.”

  Ezra sighs and stands up. “I have to go. They’re expecting me in an hour.”

  “All right.” Ezra offers a hand and helps me stand up, too. The streaks of red are gone from the sky, and a darker blue is setting in. The orange streetlights flicker on. The park will close, and officers will be through any second now to kick us out.

  As we head onto the sidewalk, Ezra says, “Do you want to—I don’t know, come?”

  I think he’s joking for a solid ten seconds, but his grim expression doesn’t change.

  “To your parents’ dinner party?”

  “It’s supposed to be a fund-raiser.” His voice sounds pained. He’s even wincing.

  I hesitate and look down at my tank and my shorts. “I’m not exactly dressed for a gala.” Not to mention I’ve never even met Ezra’s parents before. From all the stories he’s told me, they sound horrifying.

  “I’ve got some button-downs and ties that might fit you,” he tells me.

  In all the three years that I’ve known Ezra, I’ve never been to his childhood home on Park Avenue. Any brief mention about the penthouse apartment was always described like a tower in a fairy tale, where Ezra was the princess, locked away and desperate to escape. He’d spend every second he could away from that place, even before his parents bought him his Brooklyn apartment. It isn’t exactly the average teenager’s experience growing up, I guess—but then again, Ezra Patel isn’t an average teenager.

  “It could be fun,” he says. “We eat, we drink, we dance, we piss off the Manhattan elite . . .”

  Though he flashes a small smile, I can see the desperation in his eyes, too. He doesn’t want to go back—not alone. I start to wonder if there’s a place Ezra ever feels . . . I don’t know—safe, maybe, somewhere he can go and know that he’ll be loved, no matter what. Even if my dad messes up, I know that he loves me. Does Ezra have that, too?

  Ezra looks like he’s on the edge of begging me to come, and even if I’m nervous about it, I want to be there for him. “Okay. I mean—yeah, let’s go.”

  He rewards me with a grin as he throws an arm over my shoulder. “Thanks, Felix.”

  As we walk to the station, I tug on the end of Ezra’s T-shirt. “Hey,” I tell him, “about what you said earlier—with Austin being your new special friend. I’m happy for you. Really.”

  He watches me closely before giving me the twitch of a smile. “Thanks.”

  Nine

  WE TAKE THE EMPTY G TRAIN TOGETHER BEFORE WE TRANSFER to the 7 at Court Square. The icy train is filled with drunk businessmen swaying on their feet and tourists staring at the map on the train’s wall, arguing in Italian. We get off at Forty- Second Street and walk through the massive crowds that push through the hot, sticky streets that smell like piss and garbage, flashing lights of Times Square cloaking the night sky in a sheen of white. I follow Ezra down streets and avenues, away from the crowds and closer to Park Avenue, to a building of classic stone and intricate architecture. A doorman tips his hat at us as an older woman with a snippy little dog on a leash walks past.

  The lobby is all marble—floors, walls, and ceiling. There’s a huge golden chandelier above the lobby’s receptionist, who says good evening with a smile. “Welcome back, Mr. Patel.”

  “Mr. Patel? I feel like I’m in Downton Abbey,” I whisper to him as we get on the elevators, all glass walls and glimmering lights. I try not to look visibly uncomfortable, to not fidget or smooth down the creases in my tank. It’s even more unsettling to notice how relaxed Ezra seems with all of this. Seeing him stand tall, eyes glazed with boredom, really brings home the fact that he grew up in this sort of wealth—and that he still is incredibly fucking rich. There’s a pinch of jealousy in my chest, alongside the guilt. I shouldn’t be jealous of Ezra, especially when I know how hard of a time he’s had with his parents, but I can’t help it. What would my dad and I do with even a tenth of this kind of money? We’d probably still be in Brooklyn in our apartment, for starters; I wouldn’t feel so guilty about attending St. Catherine’s, and maybe all that stress and pressure wouldn’t get to my head. Maybe I’d be a better student.

  The elevator lets us off on the top floor with a ding, the doors sliding to show the entryway of the actual apartment. My mouth gapes open, and I don’t even bother to close it. The marble floors shine, and the walls—it looks like they’re thirty feet high—are all glass, looking out over the New York City skyline of skyscrapers and blinking lights. The space itself is huge. I could fit ten of my apartments in this living room alone. There’re some servers get
ting ready for the party with bottles of champagne in buckets of ice. A man with broad shoulders, a straight back, and a neatly trimmed goatee stands by the door in a three-piece suit, arms crossed as he watches the workers bustle around. He glances at Ezra, unfolds his arms and extends one large, meaty palm. Ezra shakes the man’s hand.

  He eyes Ezra, like he’s critiquing a piece of art. “You look well,” the man says with a gruff voice. “Despite the outfit.”

  “Thank you,” Ezra says with a surprising amount of formality, ignoring the jab. “This is Felix Love.”

  The man nods to me, extending a hand also so that I can shake it. I’m a little confused by who he is—until I actually take a second to look at him. He and Ezra have the same noses, the same brows.

  “Your mother is around here somewhere,” Mr. Patel says. He sounds both bored and exhausted. “Get changed, before she sees you like this.”

  Ezra nods and gestures at me to follow him. I glance over my shoulder at Mr. Patel. Isn’t this the first time they’re seeing each other in months? I get annoyed at my dad, but I couldn’t imagine him practically ignoring me, not being excited or happy to see me after that much time. But Ezra doesn’t seem bothered. He acts like this is completely normal. For him, I guess it is.

  Ezra leads me through the living room and down a hall, into another open space where it’s clear the gala will be taking place. Small circular tables are set up, and there’s even a small stage at the far end of the room. There’re more workers here, arranging a giant ice sculpture and lighting candles on each of the tables and hurrying back and forth with empty champagne glasses on trays. I see a woman with dark skin and curled hair in a gold dress and high heels standing in the center of it all.

  “Shit, that’s my mom,” Ezra whispers.

  We try to sneak past, but we barely take three steps before she calls Ezra’s name. Ezra mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath as he turns around. I stand to the side, slightly mesmerized. She’s really freaking beautiful. Like, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She has Ezra’s dark eyes and long lashes, his mouth, and even his smile. She clips over to us, arms spread wide, and pulls Ezra into a hug, kisses both of his cheeks and brushes his curls away from his face.

  “Ezra, Ezra, my beautiful Ezra,” she says with a slight British accent. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile infectious. I can’t help but grin, seeing the way she looks at him. I feel a flinch of pain, knowing that my mother has never looked at me this way, and probably never will. “I’ve missed you so much, my darling boy.”

  Ezra’s smile is strained. I’m confused, watching the two of them. Ez has always told me that his parents treat him like a lapdog: cute when it’s time to take photos, but other than that, they don’t really care about him—and yeah, I guess I could see his dad treating Ezra like that, now that I’ve met him . . . but his mother seems to be overflowing with love for Ez.

  He steps out of her hug. “Mom, this is my friend Felix. He’s going to stay for dinner.”

  She glances at me, and my heart almost stops under her gaze. I say with a trembly voice, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Patel.”

  Though her smile is still plastered on her face, I can feel her taking in my tank, my shorts, the sneakers that I’d scribbled on with a Sharpie. Before she says anything, she notices something behind us—servers, carrying in trays of hors d’oeuvres.

  “That belongs in the kitchen,” she says to the staff. She gives Ezra another smile, barely glancing at me. “Excuse me. The party begins in an hour. You should start to get ready. Your father wouldn’t want you to be late,” she tells Ezra. With that, it’s clear we’ve been dismissed. She clips away toward the server, giving her instructions rapidly.

  Ezra’s forced smile is gone. I see an echo of what might’ve once been hurt, years ago, and disappointment—but now, his blank expression suggests that this is exactly what he expected from her. “Come on,” he whispers to me. “Let’s hide in my room.”

  Ezra’s bedroom has two floors. The first floor has a miniature living room: couches, a flat-screen on the opposite wall, three different gaming consoles, doors to a private bathroom and walk-in closet. The second floor is a loft that holds his gigantic bed. That’s where we sprawl out, maybe because we’re so used to hanging out on his mattress in his Brooklyn apartment. We even keep the lights off. The only glow comes from the miniature world of New York City below, blinking at us from his glass walls. I think I can understand how Ezra might’ve felt like he was a princess locked away in a tower, once upon a time. I feel like I’m in a cage, or in a fish tank with all of these glass walls and windows. Still, even then, jealousy snakes through me.

  “Your mom didn’t seem that bad,” I tell him.

  “Yeah?” He’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Wait until the party begins. It’s like she thinks she’s the star in a show, and everyone else around is in the audience. She’ll make sure to hug me again when there’re enough people watching.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He thinks he’s the scriptwriter,” Ezra says, “sitting by the sidelines and watching his fantasy play out on the stage. He had a special part for me once: loyal son, following in his father’s footsteps to become CEO, entrepreneur, philanthropist . . . What’s funny is that he didn’t even really care that much when I told him I wanted to study art, and that I didn’t want to go to Harvard or Yale for business school. He just revised me out of his play.” He huffs out a short laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time figuring out what I even want to do with my life. I broke free from what my dad expected of me—but now there’re so many options, so many different paths. Which one am I supposed to choose?”

  The jealousy mixes with frustration to create an unsavory flavor of bitterness. Ezra’s taking so much for granted. To say, so flippantly, that he decided he didn’t want to go to Harvard or Yale, knowing that his father would’ve paid for everything—knowing that his life is made, no matter what path he takes, and that he’s still complaining . . .

  “That seems like a pretty great problem to have.”

  He frowns at the ceiling. “What does that mean?”

  “I mean—look around you. You’re literally rolling in privilege and wealth. You could do anything.” I shrug. “What do you have to complain about?”

  He sits up, blinking at the white sheets beneath us, still not looking at me. “That’s kind of harsh.”

  I bite my lip. Something in the back of my head tells me I should shut the hell up, but once the words have risen, it’s difficult to push them back down again. “It—you know, it kind of pisses me off to hear you complain when you could have anything in the world, if you actually had the—I don’t know, the motivation to do something about it.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Your mom—she loves you, I can tell, even if she doesn’t show it the way that you want her to.”

  He’s shaking his head.

  “And you could go to any college, any university, just based on your family name and wealth alone—not to mention how talented you are at everything you try. So it pisses me off, you know, it really does, to watch you just waste it all away because—because why? You’re too privileged, and you don’t know what you want to do with your life?”

  When he looks at me, the words die in my throat. Ezra’s eyes are narrowed, anger burning, expression smoldering. I don’t think Ezra’s ever looked at me this way before. This is how I honestly feel—have felt for a while now—but I’ve taken it too far. I know I have.

  Even if he’s pissed, Ezra’s voice is calm. “I think that you’re projecting,” he tells me.

  “What?”

  “You’re angry at me for not having the motivation,” he says, “but what about you? You haven’t even started your portfolio yet.”

  Anger bites through me. I roll my eyes. “I’m just . . .”

  He sits there, watching me, waiting for me to finish my sentence—and as the silence gr
ows between us, and I find it increasingly difficult to swallow, I know that he’s right. Anger retracts to shame. I rub the back of my neck. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Maybe I’m projecting a little.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “I am privileged. And I can forget that sometimes. I’m sorry if I seemed ungrateful. I know that I’m really fortunate to have this life. But not knowing what I want to do, not wanting to be forced to follow my father’s footsteps and freaking out about it—that’s all real and valid, too.”

  Shit. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I don’t know why I said any of that. I was being a dick.”

  “We all fuck up sometimes, I guess.”

  “As long as we learn and grow, right?” I roll my eyes at myself. “Maybe it’s the stress. Brown. Fuck, you’re right. I can’t figure out my portfolio, and if I don’t get started soon there’s no way I’m going to have it done in time.”

  Ezra’s watching me carefully. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t want to offend you.”

  “Just ask it, Ez.”

  “Why do you want to go to Brown?” he asks.

  The question surprises me. I blink at him. “I mean—it’s an Ivy League school. It has a dual-degree program with RISD. It’s where I’ve always wanted to go.”

  From the look on his face, I can tell Ezra knows there’s more, and that he’s willing to sit there and wait until I’m ready to tell him the whole truth.

  “And,” I add, hesitating, “I don’t know. I just want to prove, I guess, that I can get into Brown. That I’m worth an Ivy League school.”

  Ezra frowns at that one. “Worth an Ivy League school?” he repeats.

  “Yeah. I mean, people can look at someone like you, and there’s no question about it—you’re good enough for an Ivy League. And people like Declan, and Marisol—no one would question whether any of you are worth getting into a place like Brown. But me?” I’m embarrassed now, can feel the heat building in my throat. “I just want to prove that I’m good enough, too. That I deserve it. It’s kind of like proving that—I don’t know, proves I deserve respect and love, too, even if no one else agrees with me. Even if no one else believes it.” I stop myself, and kind of wish I’d stopped about ten sentences ago. Emotion is burning my neck, building up in my face and starting to reach my eyes.