Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  “Well?” Marisol says with this annoyed tone, like she couldn’t give a crap about what I’m going to say.

  I clench my jaw. Ezra, Austin, and Leah are all watching me, waiting. Maybe this is a conversation I should’ve just had with Marisol first, without this audience. I feel myself deflating.

  “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

  Marisol snorts. “Typical Felix. So melodramatic.”

  I get up, brushing off the grains that’re stuck to the backs of my legs, and start walking, feet sinking in the gray sand, sneakers in my hands. I don’t even know where I’m going. Back to the train? I climb over the railing, onto the wooden boardwalk, and it’s not long before I hear heavy footsteps behind me.

  “What the hell was that?” Ezra says beneath his breath, walking next to me.

  I’m surprised he even bothered to follow me. “Nothing.”

  “Obviously not nothing. You’ve been acting weird as shit lately, Felix.” A jab, clearly, at me for still texting with Declan.

  I stop walking, rubbing a hand over my curls. “Marisol never told you why we stopped dating, right?”

  Ezra shrugs, frowning. “She just said it didn’t work.”

  I open my mouth, fighting to force the words out, and I realize—this is the power Marisol’s got over me. She’s a fucking bully. “She told me I’m a misogynist for transitioning.”

  Ezra stares at me blankly for a second, then another. “What?”

  “She said I’m misogynistic for choosing not to be a girl anymore.”

  “Wait—what?”

  He doesn’t even stay for me to repeat myself. He jumps right back over the railing, heading for Marisol and the others. Fuck—I knew Ez would be pissed if I said something, but that doesn’t mean I want him to confront Marisol about it, and definitely not now. I jump over the railing also, calling after him, stumbling in the sand, but Ezra gets back to the others first.

  “Marisol, what the fuck?” he yells. The others spin around, eyes wide. Marisol slides her sunglasses off.

  She looks between the two of us with an expression of bewilderment.

  “You told Felix he’s a misogynist?”

  Marisol glances my way, and I can tell, right then and there—I can tell she’d never expected me to tell Ezra. She knew the kind of control she had over me. Knew that I’d stay quiet, ashamed, embarrassed, afraid that what she’d told me was the truth.

  She glances Ezra’s way again. “Well—I mean, it’s kind of true, right?”

  Leah looks surprised. “No one chooses to be transgender,” she says slowly.

  “I know, but—”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ezra says. This is a whole other level of anger. I can tell, looking at him now, that their friendship is done. There’s no coming back from what she said to me. I feel guilty. Like it’s my fault, getting Ezra this pissed at Marisol. But no—no, I remind myself, I didn’t force Marisol to say the shit that she did.

  “I’m not saying anything against Felix, or trans people,” Marisol says, “but if someone decides they don’t want to be a woman anymore, to me, that just means they inherently don’t like women—”

  “So trans women don’t like men?”

  “It doesn’t work the other way around,” Marisol says, her voice wavering—she knows she’s fucked up. Or maybe she sounds this way only because she was caught. “Men—they—there’s the patriarchy, and if a man gives up that power to become a woman—”

  “You sound like a fucking idiot right now,” Ezra says.

  “I can still be a feminist and be trans,” I say. My voice is pretty small right now, but everyone goes quiet and still, turning to listen to me. My heart’s hammering against my chest, and I feel like I’m seconds from crying, but I can’t do that—not here, not now, not in front of Marisol. “I love women. I respect women. I was proud to be a girl, before I transitioned—but I realized that just isn’t who I am. Being a guy now doesn’t mean I don’t still love and respect women.”

  Marisol rolls her eyes a little, but it’s to keep herself from crying. “So calling me out in front of everyone and making me look like an ass is your idea of loving and respecting women?”

  I stop myself from apologizing. She’s probably right—I probably should’ve made this a one-on-one conversation—but something tells me that if I confronted her privately, Marisol would’ve figured out a way to make me feel like I’m being melodramatic, made me think that I’m wrong. I’m grateful Ezra’s by my side right now, even when he has his own reasons to be pissed with me, too.

  “You made an ass out of yourself,” Ezra says. “You owe Felix an apology.”

  Marisol presses her lips together. “I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You were an ignorant, transphobic fuck,” Ezra says, voice sharp. “That’s not wrong?”

  “I don’t think I’m ignorant or transphobic.”

  “Come on, Mari,” Leah whispers. “Just apologize.”

  “No. Fuck that shit.”

  The word transphobic makes me pause. I’ve considered the possibility before, but now, it seems more likely than ever that the person behind the gallery could’ve easily been Marisol, happily going out of her way to humiliate me. If this is how she feels about me, why wouldn’t she be the one who put up that gallery of me?

  I ask her. I say, “Were you behind the gallery?”

  Marisol’s outright crying now. She knows what I’m talking about. “No. I wasn’t behind the gallery.”

  I don’t believe her. “Really?”

  She raises her hands. “Everyone already thinks I’m an ignorant dumbass now. I wouldn’t have any reason to hide the fact that I did that stupid gallery.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “No, I don’t fucking know. But you know what? I’m happy whoever it was did it.”

  Ezra shakes his head, grabbing my hand and pulling me away. “I don’t fuck with you anymore, Marisol. Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, don’t try to pretend to be my friend. We’re done.”

  “Same to you, boo-boo,” she calls after us. Ezra just flips her off.

  We make it back to the boardwalk, over the railing. I can see Leah arguing with Marisol, Austin’s hand on her arm. Shit. All the drama I’d wanted to avoid is now blowing right up in my face. Now that we’re far enough away, I let the tears roll. I don’t want Ezra to see, but of course he notices. He throws an arm over my shoulder, pulling me close to his side, making it difficult to walk as I keep stumbling into him. He doesn’t say anything. Just kisses the top of my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble, hiding my face in my hands.

  “Fuck. I hate when you apologize for shit that isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I nod, because I’m not sure what else to say.

  “She’s such an asshole,” Ezra says. “I can’t believe she said that to you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I don’t know. “I guess I was embarrassed.” I hesitate. “Afraid she might be right.”

  “She’s not right. Okay? Seriously, Felix, don’t let that shit get into your head. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “God, she’s such an asshole. Christ.” He shakes his head, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, uses the end to wipe his face. “And I don’t fucking believe her. She definitely put up that fucking gallery.”

  He’s right—Marisol probably did do the gallery, and even if she didn’t, she most likely knows who did—but suddenly, I feel exhausted. Exhausted by the drama. Exhausted by the anger. I wanted to know who put up that gallery, for revenge—for closure—but now I’m wondering if I even really need any of that. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting, even if it means people like Marisol and grandequeen69 win.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “I said to stop apologizing.”

  “No—I mean,” I say, “I’m sorry that I’m still texting Declan.”

  Ezra blinks, staring down at t
he boardwalk beneath our feet, shifting his jaw to the side a little. “I can’t tell you not to text him anymore. But—Christ, why’re you still talking to him?”

  “We’ve just . . . I don’t know, connected?” I can’t tell Ezra that Declan has a crush on me. If he’s upset now, I can’t imagine what he’d do or say if he found that out.

  “It’s not like I can tell you to stop or anything,” Ezra says. “Is it shitty of me, to be a little jealous?”

  “That’s just how you feel, I guess?” I hesitate. “I mean, I was a little jealous back there.”

  “Huh?”

  “With Austin.”

  “Again: huh?”

  God. This conversation’s just going around in circles of awkward.

  “You’re jealous of me?” Ezra asks. “Or of Austin?”

  “Not jealous like that,” I say. “I mean—just jealous that you two even have each other, you know?”

  How easy is it for Ezra? He goes from one guy to the next, one relationship to the next. He falls in and out of love. And I just continue to watch from the sidelines. This thing, whatever it is, that I have with Declan is the first time I’ve experienced a connection like this—the first time I’ve felt hope that I could be in my first relationship, be kissed for the first time, fall in love for the first time. It feels fragile, this thing—like it could slip through my fingers like water and spill at my feet.

  “Are you going to stop texting him?” Ezra asks, glancing at me.

  I bite my lip. “Probably not.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over my curls. “You still like me more than him, right?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course, Ez. You’re my best friend.”

  But his smile’s still strained as we leave the boardwalk and head back to the train.

  Sixteen

  BY THE TIME WE MAKE IT TO EZRA’S APARTMENT, THE SUN IS high—but it doesn’t make any difference, with the dark clouds that roll in, blanketing the air in darkness. The heat simmering over the city breaks, and purple lightning splits through the sky, thunder echoing so loudly that it feels like Ezra’s entire apartment shakes. Lightning illuminates the room every time it strikes.

  “I love thunderstorms,” he tells me.

  I hate them. I hate how unpredictable they are, how much it feels like fate is being left up to the whim of a few molecules.

  “No wonder all the ancient people thought there were gods living up in the clouds,” Ezra says. Another lightning strike, a thunderclap so loud I flinch. He grins at me. “You’re not scared, are you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s okay if you’re scared,” he says. “I’ll protect you.”

  I hug my knees to my chest. “Seems like that’s all you do recently.”

  He shrugs, glancing my way. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  Ezra decides a thunderstorm is as good of an excuse as any to skip classes today, and I agree, though a part of me wants to go sprinting through the rain to get to St. Cat’s. I was actually looking forward to working on my portfolio. I want to see what a new self-portrait would look like, after I’ve stood up for myself. Would my skin be as purple as the lightning outside, my eyes as dark as the gray sand and sea?

  Ezra snuggles next to me, blanket covering him, and even with the thunder and rain lashing against his windows, he falls asleep almost instantly. My eyes are pretty heavy also, but I pull out my phone, tapping on Declan’s last message to me.

  Maybe it’s not something you should think about. Maybe you should just do it, whatever it is you’re too afraid to try. Just do it. Just say yes.

  I type. I said yes.

  He responds instantly, like he was waiting all night for me to text. And what happened?

  I ended up at Coney Island. It was kind of a shitshow.

  Fuck. Really? I feel bad now.

  Don’t feel bad. It was overdue drama.

  Do you regret going?

  No. The fight needed to happen.

  He doesn’t answer me right away. I glance down at Ezra, asleep against my leg, mouth open, strands of hair covering half of his face. My fingers fly across the keypad—but then I hesitate, delete, rewrite, hit send.

  Remember you were telling me about your ex-boyfriend? The one who hates you now?

  Yeah.

  What happened?

  He doesn’t respond right away to that one either, and for a second, I’m worried that I crossed a line I didn’t know had been drawn. Lightning flashes, and a gust of wind rattles the windows. Declan’s response buzzes in my hand.

  What usually happens, I guess. My heart was broken. Etc., etc.

  My chest aches. Declan’s heart was broken? The way I saw things, Declan was the one who suddenly cut things off and became the asshole we so loved and adored.

  How was your heart broken?

  You’re pretty curious today.

  Sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

  It’s okay. It’s just not super fun to delve into the details. Long story short, I could tell this guy was going to break up with me.

  I frown, tilting my head at that one. Why would Declan think that? Everything had been great between him and Ez. Ezra had been happy.

  I decided to end things first. It’s kind of pathetic, I guess, but I couldn’t deal with getting hurt, so I pushed him away.

  Pushed him away?

  I was kind of a dick to him. Still am, I guess.

  I’m gripping the phone, staring at the screen. It makes sense now—not that I forgive Declan for treating me and Ezra the way he has, but at least I know the reason for it.

  He sends another message. I’m not proud of the way I ended things, and looking back on it I’d probably try to do things differently, but it’s too late now. I just wanted to reject him and everything to do with him, before he could reject me.

  I shake my head. But why did you think Ezra was going to break up with you?

  I realize my mistake approximately three seconds after I hit send. “Shit!”

  Ezra rolls away from me in his sleep.

  Declan’s message comes in. So you do go to St. Cat’s?

  “Fuck. Ah, God fucking damn it.” Why do you think that?

  You know Ezra Patel.

  “Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

  Ezra peeks open an eye, groans. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  I rub a hand over my face. “Nothing—sorry, go back to sleep.”

  I don’t have to tell him twice. He yanks the blanket up over his head without another word.

  I sigh, begin typing. Okay, you’re right. I know Ezra.

  So, what, are you just trying to get details of our drama to spread gossip or something?

  What? NO.

  Another second. Then: Are you Ezra?

  I actually laugh at that one, though I guess that’s not too far from the truth. No, I’m not Ezra. Is that disappointing?

  Not really. I’ve moved on. A beat. To you, clearly.

  I raise an eyebrow. You don’t know who I am. You don’t trust me. But you still like me?

  The heart wants what the heart wants, right?

  I mean, maybe? I wouldn’t really know.

  What do you mean?

  I mean I’ve never been in love.

  You’ve never had feelings for another person?

  I hesitate. I had a crush on Marisol, before it turned out she was a raging transphobe, and I’ve thought people are cute before, have been interested, but . . . It depends on your definition of feelings, I guess? I’ve had crushes before, but I’ve never been in love. I don’t know what possesses me, I really don’t, but I just keep going: I mean, I WANT to be in love. That’s something I’ve always wanted to feel. What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too? Is it another level of friendship? Another level of trust, vulnerability, always telling that person your thoughts and feelings, sharing every little thing with them so that you’re so in sync that it’s lik
e you’re one person? Is it like every time you see them, your heart goes wild, and you can’t think because you’re so effing happy? Is it like whenever they’re away, you feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself? Does knowing someone loves you fill you with confidence, because you know you’re the type of person who deserves love? And what’s it like to break up with someone you love? What’s it like to decide to try again, and let yourself fall in love with someone else? To decide to take that chance you might get hurt, but still want to try? I don’t know. But I want to.

  Declan takes a while to respond—a minute passes, and another, and another, and I think with fear and worry and just a smidge of relief, yes—I’ve officially done it. I’ve scared him away. But finally, my phone buzzes: What’s stopping you?

  I mean, nothing, technically. Except that someone would need to fall in love with me, too.

  Can’t you love someone without them loving you?

  Yeah, of course, but is unrequited love being IN love, or is that admiration, love from afar? And besides, I don’t think anyone would fall in love with me.

  Again, Declan doesn’t answer. My eyes are starting to become so heavy I can barely keep them open. The thunderstorm is finally dying down—there aren’t any echoing booms that could potentially be the end of the world, anyway, and the rain isn’t coming down as hard—but there are still flashes of lightning. I’m about to lie down when my phone starts to buzz—and doesn’t stop.

  Declan’s calling me.

  I freak out. Drop the phone and watch it vibrate on the mattress. I should just let it go to voice mail. He probably called me accidentally, or . . .

  Weirdest of all, though? I kind of want to hear his voice.

  I snatch it up from the bed and swipe open the answer icon at the very last second. I open my mouth, but then it hits me—what if he recognizes my voice?

  Declan speaks on the other end. “Hello?”

  He sounds the same as he always does. Once upon a time, hearing Declan’s voice would make me want to hand-to-God strangle anyone and anything standing too close to me . . . but now, I only hear his deep voice with an uncertain tone, maybe even a little shy, nervous—but with some anticipation, too.