“I went to the LGBT Center the other day,” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He scribbles something down on his crossword.
“I went to a gender-identity group discussion.”
“Okay,” he says. Erases, brushes the page with his hand.
“It was a good discussion,” I tell him. I’m just stalling now, unsure if I even want to keep going. I suddenly feel like I’m coming out all over again. What if he thinks I’m just confused, or making my identity up? Not a lot of people even know that demiboys exist. The first time I told my dad that I was trans, he didn’t exactly react well. Why would this time be any different?
I remember Bex’s reassuring smile, and I don’t know—maybe it was dealing with Austin’s transphobic messages for the past month, but now, more than ever, I feel the need to be real about who I am—to tell my dad the truth. “While I was there, I asked about my gender, because for the past few months, I’ve been questioning my identity.”
My dad’s eyes snap up at that one. “Questioning? You’re questioning if you’re transgender?”
“No—no, I know that I’m trans,” I tell him.
He furrows his eyebrows, confused, waiting.
“There’ve just been a few times—a lot of times, I guess—when I . . . I don’t know, feel like I might not totally be a guy. It’s a weird feeling to describe, but there’ve been a few moments when someone calls me a boy, it’s not totally right, and I don’t feel right being called a girl either, and—I don’t know, it’s just a feeling.”
My dad shakes his head a little. “All right. I’m not sure I understand.”
Frustration rises in me. “You don’t understand a lot.”
He sits up straighter, closing the crossword book. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“You don’t try to understand, either.”
He flinches at that one. “That hurts.”
I focus on Captain’s ear, scratching so that it flicks back and forth.
“I’m trying,” he tells me. “I’m trying to understand. I want to understand. There’s a lot that I don’t know, and I’ve been slow. I know I’ve been slow to get it, and I know it’s been frustrating for you, so I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry if you think my slowness has something to do with how I feel about you. Because I love you, kid. Don’t ever think that I don’t love you.”
“If you love me, why won’t you say my name? My real name?”
He closes his mouth, swallowing. Then, “Felix.”
Hearing my name with my dad’s voice, coming from my dad’s mouth, is like a shock through my chest, my heart, vibrating through me.
“I’ve had an idea of who you are—who you were supposed to be,” my dad tells me. “And your name’s been the last piece of you I wasn’t ready to let go of—I just wasn’t ready.” He’s nodding. “But I know you’re Felix. Your name is Felix.”
Tears are building in me. I wipe my eyes fast. “Sorry. That’s embarrassing.”
“Felix,” he says again, with this small smile. “It fits you. It really does. I love you. I don’t want you to ever think that I don’t. I’ll admit, at first, I had a difficult time figuring all of this out. But you know what? I’ve never seen you happier. I know you’re struggling with Ezra and everything, but I’ve never seen you with this light inside of you. You weren’t happy, and now you are, and that’s all I could ever want for you. That’s all I could ever ask. You’re happy. And brave. You’ve been so courageous, just by being yourself, even knowing that the world won’t always accept you for who you are. You refuse to be anything but yourself, no matter what. I look up to that. I admire that.”
I hide my face inside my shirt so he can’t see it’s a mess. It feels like tears are leaking from my pores. I feel a hand on my shoulder, a squeeze.
“If you don’t always feel like a boy,” my dad says, “are you still my son?”
I pull my shirt down. My dad’s watching me with a pinch in between his eyebrows, and I can tell he’s nervous about the question, like he’s afraid he’s getting something wrong.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, I think so.”
He sits back with this smile, picking up his book of crossword puzzles again. “And things will work out with Ezra,” he says, waving his pencil around. “These things always do.”
I pick up Captain and put her down on the floor, get up from my seat and brush off the cat hair. I snatch up my backpack, waiting by the door. “I’m going out.”
“Okay,” my dad says, and from his smug tone, I have a feeling he’s managed to read my mind again.
I text Leah as I speed walk to the train. I’m coming down to the march.
YES YES YES!! We’ll be at 14th and Greenwich. I’m not going to tell Ez you’re coming.
Why not?
Let it be a surprise!
I’m afraid she just isn’t telling me the whole truth. Maybe if she tells him that I’m coming, he’ll leave the second he finds out. I try to push away the fear as I run across the street, against the red light, and rush down the subway stairs just as a train pulls up, jumping through the doors before they have a chance to close in front of me. I’m sweating, breathing hard, ignoring the people who raise their eyebrows at me.
I get off the train at Fourteenth Street. Underground, I can already hear the muffled blasts of music, the shouts and screams and laughter. There’re people heading to the parade, eager and laughing with their friends; people coming downstairs from the parade, covered with sweat and glitter. I emerge from the subway station, out into the bright, summer light and a crowd of screaming bodies, glitter literally raining down from the sky. My eyes can’t take in everything quickly enough. People are painted the colors of the rainbow, waving flags and dancing to music that passes by on the floats that move down the center of the street—and the floats, the lace and frills and bands blasting music that thumps through the ground, floats with queer couples getting married and having their first dance, floats with little kids waving with their parents. People watch from their apartment balconies above, cheering and waving their own flags.
There must be hundreds of thousands of people here. I’m just thinking that there’s no way—no way in hell—I’d ever find Leah and Ezra in this, when I hear a scream in my ear. I spin around, and Leah leaps into my arms, almost making us fall to the pavement.
“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here!”
She’s in a tank top and shorts that show off her curves, and her red curls are flying everywhere. “I’m really happy you came!”
I’m so nervous I can’t even speak as I glance around for a sign of Ezra—but I notice Leah’s smile fall a little.
“Okay, so,” she says, “we were together literally ten minutes ago, and he said he was going to run to the corner store to get some water, and I said I’d be here, but then the police put up this blockade,” she says, pointing to an NYPD barricade that lines the sidewalk, “and he shouted to me that he’d find a way around and come back over, but that was a few minutes ago now . . .”
Fuck. A few weeks ago, maybe even a few days ago, I would’ve been relieved. I would’ve given up, right here and now, and gone back home, happy to sit with the idea that it wasn’t going to work out anyway—I don’t deserve the kind of love that I want. But I came here for a reason. I have to see Ezra. I have to tell him everything. I can’t give up, not now. I can’t imagine just texting him the truth—I have to speak to him, face-to-face. And I can’t wait until Monday, the fact that I love him burning me up inside.
“I’m going to try to find him,” I yell to Leah.
She grins at me. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m going to stay here, in case he manages to make his way back around, okay?”
I nod. “Text me if he shows up again!”
“I will!” We hesitate, then Leah throws her arms around me again, just a little emotional—and, I don’t know, I guess I’m a little emotional myself. “Good luck!” she shouts.
I start walking, turning the corner and going up a side street. Even here, away from the main parade, the streets are packed with people and vendors. I turn another corner, back up to the march route, and the crowd moves like a river, pushing me along until I see a break—out in the sun, beside the barricade, there’s a single spot. I slide into it. It’s the perfect place to watch the parade, but I wanted a second to get out of the masses of people and take a moment to look around, scanning the crowd for Ezra. When I don’t see him, I try to rejoin the crowd to keep going—but it’s become so packed that there’s a jam, no one moving. They’re like a wall, and in front of me, police officers warn anyone off from jumping over the barricades and into the parade itself. I’m trapped.
Shit. I wanted to find Ezra, but I really don’t know if that’s going to happen now. I have a pretty good spot for the parade, so I lean against the barricade’s railing and try to enjoy the march. A chance like this doesn’t come along often, and I know Ezra would ask me what the hell I’m doing, not watching the parade when it’s literally right in front of me. Bikers waving flags from their motorcycles rumble along. A float made of balloons and a drag queen singing to the crowd that sings back passes next. There’s a marching band that blasts a Sia song, and there’s a sports car with a celebrity from a reality TV show who waves and blows kisses. And through it all, everyone screams and screams and screams. I usually hate this parade—hate the noise, the crowds—but when I see the Callen-Lorde float passing by, I feel an urge to scream, too. I do scream when the LGBT Center float passes and I catch Bex in the parade, waving with a yellow, white, purple, and black flag tied around their neck like a cape.
Once I start screaming, I can’t stop. I scream so hard my throat feels raw and my heart pounds. I’m screaming with joy. I’m screaming with pain. I’m screaming with the awe that I’m here, that we’re all here, and that we’re here because of the people before us, the people who couldn’t be here, and I’m screaming for myself, too. Screaming and cheering and a little bit of crying. I try to wipe my eyes as if it’s just dust, but the person beside me catches me with a smile, also wiping their eyes. I don’t know this person, don’t know their name, probably will never even see them again after this parade, but for that one second, I feel like they’re a friend, or a part of my family, and that’s pretty fucking amazing. I never really got it before, why Ezra is so obsessed with Pride, but I think I’m starting to get it now.
There’s a break in between the floats, the far-off sounds of the marching band and blasting music and the continuous roar of cheers. I glance up, look at the opposite side of the street—and it’s like I made him materialize, made him appear with my thoughts alone. Ezra, dressed in all black, shades on, curls flying in the breeze, grin on his face.
I shout his name. “Ezra!”
A few heads turn to me, but he doesn’t hear me. Another float is coming. I wave my hands. “Ezra!”
His head turns. Even with his shades on, I can tell he’s looking right at me.
I didn’t plan for this—didn’t think this through. The float is coming, blaring music, everyone on the float dancing. “I’m sorry!”
More people are watching now. Ezra hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t given any indication that he heard.
“I’m sorry!” I say again. “You were right.” He shakes his head, and I don’t know if he can hear me. “You were right, I—”
The float’s paused. Everyone’s watching now, people all around Ezra looking from him to me and back to him again.
“I love you!” I yell.
That gets the loudest cheer of all. People start clapping, shouting, blowing their whistles. Ezra pulls his shades off, and for a heart-stopping second, I think he’s about to turn away, to disappear into the crowd—but he hops up onto the barricade and leaps over, into the street, ignoring the shouts of the police officers. He jogs up to me, and I stand on the edge of the barricade so that we’re the same height just as he gets to me. I haven’t seen Ezra this close up in over a week, and just having him right here, right in front of me, makes my heart pump harder and harder, so hard that I can barely breathe, and I just want to throw my arms around him, hold him and kiss him—
“Sorry,” he says, breathless, grin on his face. God, I’ve missed him so fucking much. “What’d you say? I don’t think I heard you right.”
I bite the corner of my lip, trying to stop myself from smiling. “I said I love you.”
He squints at me. “Say that again? Just one more time.”
“I love you.”
He leans in, hands on my cheeks as he kisses me. I know the screams have gotten louder. I know people are cheering, and that the float behind us has continued moving, music loud—I know all of this, but only distantly, vaguely. Ezra hops over the barricade, taking my hand and pulling me through the crowd—people are literally throwing glitter right at us, clapping and patting us on our shoulders. We burst out from the crowd and onto a side street that’s emptier than all the others. Ezra turns to me, and I can’t help it—I almost die laughing. He looks like a glitter bomb exploded on him. From his grin, I know that I don’t look much better. He reaches down, wiping glitter from the corners of my eyes and my cheeks. He pulls his hand away, but I wish he wouldn’t. I haven’t spoken to him, haven’t touched him, haven’t even stood this close to him in almost two weeks, and—
“You mean it?” he says. Another blast of music, another cheer.
I force myself not to look away from him, even if nervousness and embarrassment make me want to hide my face in my hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean it.”
He pulls me in for a hug, holding me close, his chin nestled on the top of my head. He holds me so close I can feel his heart through his chest, and I know that he can feel mine, too—pumping hard and fast at first, but becoming steadier the longer we stand there together. Before, when Ezra would hug me, I never thought much about it—but now, there’s a pinch of nervousness overshadowed by excitement. Pure joy. Amazement, that I could’ve been with Ezra like this the entire time, if I hadn’t been so oblivious—to both his feelings, and my own. If I hadn’t been so afraid of letting myself feel a real love like this.
Twenty-Five
EZRA USUALLY SPENDS THE ENTIRE DAY AT PRIDE, BUT HE takes my hand and walks me to the train so we can head back to his apartment in Brooklyn. I text Leah that I found him, that we’ve made up and we’re going to hang out, and she sends me a bunch of heart and crying emojis.
The silence between me and Ezra on the train is strained, a little awkward—but not necessarily in a bad way. I can tell that we’re both just so excited to be next to each other, to have the chance to speak, and that we both have so much that we want to say, but we’re waiting for the moment we can finally be alone. He takes my hand, intertwining our fingers and rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I nod, biting back a smile. “Yeah. This is okay.”
We get off at the Bedford-Nostrand stop, still holding hands as we climb the stairs and cross the street, walk past the park and toward his apartment. I would’ve thought it’d feel awkward after a while, still holding his hand—like I wouldn’t know if he’d want to let go, or that I’d want to let go and not know how to tell him, but right here and now, I kind of hope that he never lets go again. He squeezes my hand a little, as if he read my mind and wants me to know that he feels the same.
He has to let go to get out his keys and unlock the front door, and we stomp up the stairs until he opens his apartment door. When it closes behind him, we stand in front of each other, staring at one another. Maybe this would’ve felt awkward or embarrassing once upon a time, but right now, I just want to paint this moment in my mind, something that I can always look back on and remember. I stare at his face as though I’m trying to commit every angle, the darkness of his eyes, the twitch of his smile to memory.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
“God, yeah.”
He laughs and leans in, kissing me softly. It feels like we’ve got all of the rest of time to kiss like this, to be together, to love one another. I take his hand and pull him to the couch, and we just sit there together, his head in my lap while I play with his curls.
“I can’t believe things turned out this way,” he says with a low voice, eyes closed, his fingers rubbing up and down my arm.
“Me either. I thought you were going to hate me forever.”
“I never hated you. I could never hate you.”
“Even after everything I said?” I internally flinch, remembering that night on his stoop, telling him that I didn’t want him to love me. I’d been too afraid to let myself feel this way. That feels like centuries ago now.
“I was hurt,” he admits, “but I could never hate you.”
“These past weeks were hell,” I tell him. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too,” he says.
“So much has changed so fast,” I whisper.
“What’ve I missed?” he asks me.
I hesitate, then say, “You know how I was thinking about my gender identity?”
He opens his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Well, I went to this discussion group at the Center, and I did some more research, and I found this term—I don’t know, it’s just a word, but it feels like it captures so much of who I am in a way that nothing else has.”
“What’s the word?” he asks, and he seems so genuinely curious that it makes my heart ache.
“It’s demiboy.”
“Demiboy,” Ezra repeats, like he’s trying the word out on his tongue. “I like it. It reminds me of demigod or something.”
“I’m not exactly a god.”
“Depends on who you ask, I guess.”
A laugh escapes me, and Ezra grins as we fall back into a comfortable quiet.
Ezra swallows. “I was—you know, pretty ashamed about the way things ended, and I was such an asshole to you that I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me. I kept trying to work up the nerve to apologize, but then I’d see you and Declan together, and I thought you’d moved on.”
Felix Ever After Page 25
