Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

  These are all the things I tell myself, anyway. But there’s a voice in the back of my head: What if Declan’s right? What if Ezra’s in love with me?

  I type on my phone, asking Ezra if I should meet him at his apartment, but he tells me no—he wants me to meet him at Stonewall.

  I hold in a groan. Stonewall Inn? Really? It’s ten days into Pride month, so it’s going to be packed. A few years ago, I was totally obsessed with the place. It’s where the riots began with trans women of color like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera—where the marches started. But after visiting the Inn a few times, I quickly learned I’m not exactly the partying type. The crowds, the blasting music, the sticky floors, the white straight tourist girls “accidentally” elbowing me because they think I’m in their way for, you know, existing, the sketchier older guys offering to buy me drinks (which, okay, I’ve definitely taken, who would turn down a free beer?) . . . It’s not exactly my idea of fun.

  But Ezra loves anything and everything to do with Pride month, and Stonewall is a part of that. By the time I leave my dad’s place and get to Christopher Street, there’s a line outside with a group of girls in front of me, laughing and talking excitedly. The line moves quickly, and the brawny, bald bouncer in a tutu and Mardi Gras beads takes my fake ID and stamps my wrist without even looking at my face. Inside, the disco spotlights swirl, and a drag queen sings Mariah Carey on a small stage, shirtless boys covered in glitter screaming along to the words. The floor is so packed I have to squeeze in between bodies to push my way through, past the bar and up the stairs.

  On the second floor, the lights are low and music blasts. The crowd jumps up and down to a Journey song. A spotlight shines, and I see him—Ezra is right in the middle of it all, shouting the words, hair everywhere, shirt gone, grin split across his face. He may or may not be a little intoxicated.

  He’s in love with his best friend. That guy, Felix.

  I hope to see Austin, just to prove Declan wrong, but he’s nowhere to be found. I push through the crowd of jumping bodies and pull on Ezra’s elbow. He spins to me, eyes wide, pupils filling his irises. He yells my name, though I can barely hear it over the music, and grabs my hands to dance with me, but I hate dancing—hate the feeling of everyone watching, of feeling so awkward, unable to just let go. Ez wobbles and almost falls, leaning on me—he smells like mint and wine. It’s only eleven. How is he already so drunk?

  “Do you want water?” I yell to him.

  Ezra nods, so I start pushing my way to the bar. I’m surprised when a hand grabs mine, and I see he’s decided to follow.

  We go to the corner farthest away from the DJ and the speakers. We can at least hear each other when we shout. Ezra pulls his shirt from his back pocket and yanks it on, but not before I get a glimpse at his abs. Ezra catches me looking and grins at me, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “I almost didn’t. You know how I feel about Stonewall.”

  We get one glass of water and two straws to share.

  “Where’s Austin?” I shout to him.

  “Huh?”

  “Austin—where is he?”

  “Oh,” Ezra says. “We broke up.”

  He’s in love with his best friend. That guy, Felix.

  “What? Why?”

  Ezra shrugs. “I don’t know. Can we talk about it later?”

  “Sure—yeah.” That’s what I say, even though this is the only thing I want to talk about now.

  We lean in, both sipping. Ezra stares at me as we drink.

  “What is it?” I ask when I take a breath, pulling away. He’s not in love with me. There’s no way he’s in love with me.

  Ezra shakes his head without looking away. “Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am that you’re my friend.”

  God, he’s so drunk. “What’s your alcohol intoxication level right now?”

  “Not that high,” he says, defensive. When I give him a look, he rolls his eyes. “I grabbed a bottle of champagne from my parents’ place before I left.”

  I squint at him. “I thought you were at your apartment. I thought you were sick.”

  He shrugs. “I got a little tired of Brooklyn. I needed a break, so I ended up at my parents’ penthouse.”

  I frown. Somehow, by Brooklyn, I think he means me. Was he really that upset with me, that I’m still speaking with Declan? Why didn’t he tell me that he’d broken up with Austin?

  He’s in love with his best friend.

  The music changes to BTS. Lights of all colors start flashing. Everyone screams.

  “Shit, I love this song.” Ezra spins around. “Dance with me?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I want you to dance with me!”

  “I’m not good at dancing.”

  “You’re just being self-conscious,” Ezra says, tapping my forehead.

  He extends a hand, waiting. I know that he’s right. I’m tired of doing nothing but sitting to the side, watching and wishing I could join in, but too afraid to actually try. And maybe dancing in Stonewall doesn’t feel like much, but it’s still something. I grab Ezra’s hand, and he pulls me back into the crowd and jumps around to the beat, laughing all the while, spinning me in a circle. He puts his hands on my waist, moving us closer. The song changes again. It’s slower, has a deeper bass. The lights get darker. Ezra leans down and puts his head on my shoulder.

  “This okay?” he asks against my ear.

  Shit. He’s in love with me. Declan’s right. I think Ezra really might be in love with me.

  I just nod, nervous that my voice might crack. Ezra presses closer, and it’s not like we haven’t touched before—we’ve hugged a thousand times, cuddled in our sleep, snuggled practically every single day—but his closeness feels different this time. It makes my heart beat a little harder. He pulls his head back from my shoulder and stares at me carefully, like this is totally normal for him, like it isn’t uncomfortable for him to hold my eye contact the way that he does now. He watches me like he’s noticed something, but he isn’t sure what.

  The song changes. I let go of Ez and pull away, making my way back to the bar. Ezra follows. His eyes are glazed over.

  “You should probably drink some more water,” I tell him, sliding the glass over.

  “Yeah,” he mumbles. “You’re right.”

  We don’t dance again for the rest of the night. We sit on our stools, watching everyone else go crazy over songs, laughing and making out and drifting around the dance floor. When Ezra asks me if I’m coming over to his place tonight, I hesitate, a little embarrassed. I liked the way my heart started beating harder, liked Ezra’s fingers on my waist . . . Now, suddenly, everything feels different.

  I tell him yes, and we’re out the door, into the summer heat. The entire street in front of Stonewall is closed off, vendors selling rainbow-colored everything in preparation for the march, tourists wandering and taking selfies. We’re quiet as we walk. Quiet as we sit next to each other on the train. Kids shout, “It’s showtime!” They start pumping music, doing flips and spinning around poles.

  When we get off the train in Brooklyn and start walking back to Ezra’s place, past the cars lining the street and piles of black garbage bags fluttering in the breeze, I dare myself to speak. “What happened with Austin?”

  He still doesn’t want to talk about it—I can tell from the way he runs a hand through his hair, trying to untangle his curls. “I don’t know. I’m just not that into him, and I figured it’s better to break it off now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask him. “I mean—are you really that angry at me?”

  His eyes widen. “Angry?”

  “Yeah. You know.” I pause. “About Declan?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “I wasn’t really angry. Hurt, maybe. But not angry.”

  We’re quiet again.

  “I mean,” he says, “I drove myself crazy for a little while, you know? Wondering what you two could be talking
about. Wondering if you like him more than you like me. Feeling all . . . betrayed, I guess.” He takes a deep breath and stretches his arms behind his head. “But I realized that was all immature bullshit. I don’t own you. It’s stupid that I felt like I did.”

  We get to his apartment and stomp up the stairs. I haven’t been here in a few days, when just a couple of weeks ago, this was practically my home. When Ezra opens the door, I step inside, sinking into the familiarity and the comfort of his space—but once I kick off my shoes at the door and look up, I do a double take. The white Christmas lights are still hanging on the walls, blinking and putting the apartment in a soft glow, but the mattress is gone. There’s a giant sofa up against the wall, facing the TV. There’s even an end table with a lamp on it.

  He sees my face and grins. “I went to IKEA.”

  The door closes behind me. I cautiously head over to the couch and sit on it, testing it out. I sink about two inches. It’s soft as fuck.

  Ezra grins at me. “Nice, right?”

  “Where’s the mattress?”

  “In my room. I still need to get a bed frame.”

  I run my hand over the couch’s gray fabric. It’s like velvet. Shit. I feel like I didn’t get to witness a major milestone in Ezra’s life. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him.

  He watches me from the kitchen, leaning on the counter. “Yeah. I’ve missed you, too.”

  “Me and Declan—we don’t really talk about anything,” I tell him. “Just bullshit most of the time. And . . .” I hesitate. Declan’s story about his father—about being disowned—feels like Declan’s story to tell. I’m not sure I should tell Ezra what’d happened. “And I just tell him stuff about my mom sometimes. That’s all.” I try to ignore the pinch of guilt that I’m lying.

  Ezra walks over, white lights glowing against his brown skin, shining against his black hair. He sits on the couch beside me. “Austin was really pissed at me when I broke up with him.”

  “Oh.” I don’t really know what to say. “What happened?”

  Ezra groans. “It was so fucking bad. We went to Olive Garden yesterday, because I thought it might be better to break up with him if I took him out for dinner or something, and I tried to be nice about it. I told him he’s cute, and I like him a lot, but I just—I don’t know, he isn’t the one for me. And he started crying and telling me that I led him on and all this shit, and he threw the breadsticks at me.”

  I almost laugh. I bite my lip to stop myself. “He threw the breadsticks?”

  Ez glares at me. “It’s not funny.”

  I nod, forcing a frown. “You’re right. Sorry. Not funny.”

  Ezra and I are quiet for a second before a snort escapes me. Ezra clears his throat, fighting off his own smile, before we look at each other and crumple into laughter. Once we start, it’s hard to stop.

  “But the breadsticks are the best part,” I tell him.

  “Right? It was like adding insult to injury.”

  He wipes his eyes and hides his face in his hands, and I really hope the tears are from laughing too hard. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice muffled. “I felt like I was forcing myself to go out with him, when I didn’t really want to, and I feel horrible, because I think he might really like me, and . . .”

  He unhides his face, watching me, not looking away. He’s in love with me. He really might actually be in love with me. I almost ask him if it’s true. But the heat builds from my chest, up my neck and to my mouth, and suddenly I can’t speak. I swallow and look away.

  A beat passes. I take a deep breath.

  “I’m jealous,” I tell him, glancing back at him with a small smile.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Jealous? Why?”

  I shrug a little, embarrassed. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I’ve never been kissed before. I want that, but the fact that it hasn’t happened yet—I don’t know, it makes me feel like those are things that are meant for everyone else but me.”

  Ezra already knows. I’ve told him this before. But now—now, when I think he might be in love with me—it feels like everything I say has a different meaning.

  He clenches his jaw as he watches me. We sit in quiet for a long time. So long it starts to feel uncomfortable. I rack my brain for something stupid to say, to get him to laugh, to get us back to the friendship we once had, chilling in the park, high as fuck, talking about anything and everything and nothing at all. God, that feels like years ago now.

  Silence. A car passes by outside, lights cast on the wall until it’s gone.

  Ezra whispers. “Can I kiss you?”

  My gaze snaps up to his. “What?”

  He doesn’t repeat himself.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No, I’m not drunk.”

  He won’t look away. He’s still waiting for my answer. I can’t breathe as I nod. He doesn’t hesitate—he leans in, and I flinch, bump my mouth against his, but he only pauses before leaning in again, more slowly this time. His lips touch mine, my heart thrumming, beating against my chest like it’s trying to jump into his. I inhale against his lips, and he pulls away. My first kiss.

  He still won’t speak. His eyes flicker, looking at my own, waiting for an answer.

  I lean in this time, and he puts a hand to my face, the other to the back of my neck, and I push my mouth against his, so hard my tooth grazes against his bottom lip. He pulls back an inch. “Softer,” he murmurs. I nod, mumbling an apology, pulling him back to me again. All I can feel are his lips, his hands under my shirt, on my legs, up and down my back. Somehow, I end up on his lap, legs on either side of him, and I can feel him, feel his hard-on, which both scares the shit out of me and sends a thrill through me as I press against him, tugging at his shirt—

  He pulls back. I try to follow his mouth with my own, but he pulls back again.

  “You okay?” I say, breathless.

  Ezra nods. He can’t look at me. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

  He shifts uncomfortably. I get off his lap, legs crossed on the couch. Embarrassment races through me. “I—sorry, I got too—”

  “No,” he says quickly. “No, don’t be sorry. God, don’t be sorry. It’s just—I was getting a little too excited—”

  If I was embarrassed before, that’s nothing in comparison to now. My eyes automatically glance back down to Ezra’s lap, where I was just seconds ago, and where a bulge still very obviously presses up against his jeans. He’s embarrassed, too—I can tell by the way he won’t look at me as he tries to tug his shirt down.

  “I’ll be right back.” He stands up, leaving the living room. The bathroom door clicks shut. Water starts to run.

  I press my face into my hands.

  Oh my fucking God.

  I can already tell how awkward it’d be if I stayed here tonight—I mean, I can’t even look Ezra in the eye—so without saying a word, I’m out the door. It shuts behind me, and I race down the steps and out the glass front door of the apartment building—but I stop before I leave the stoop. I sit down where I’ve sat so many times before, resting my head against the railing, the insanity of whatever the hell just happened thrumming through me.

  I’m not surprised when the door opens and shuts behind me again. Ezra sits down beside me.

  “You okay?” he asks, his voice low.

  “I have no idea.”

  “That was a little weird, right?”

  “Totally fucking weird.”

  He laughs for a second, hiding his face in his arms, folded on top of his knees. He glances at me. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Is that weird, too?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe a little?” It’s hard to look at him. “We’re best friends.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He sits up straight again, stretching his knees out, looking at the sky, a sliver of the moon highlighting strings of clouds. “I have something to tell you.”

  My heart sinks. I alrea
dy know what he’s going to say.

  “Don’t,” I say. His head turns to me. “Just—don’t.”

  I see a flicker of hurt on his face as he looks down to the ground again. “Why not?”

  “We’re friends,” I tell him. “I don’t want to lose what we have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we break up, the way Declan broke up with you? What if we get pissed at each other and stop talking? I don’t want to ruin this. We’ve got a pretty fucking amazing friendship, Ez.”

  “I know that,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “I can’t help having feelings for you.”

  “Why would you have feelings for me?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so pissed—why I almost feel betrayed by him, like he’s been lying to me about our relationship all along. Underneath that anger is fear. Ezra and I—we’d make so much sense. We support each other, love each other, have always been there for one another. It’d make so much sense, if we fell in love and started going out, if we stayed together through college and then got married and had a cute story about how we were high school sweethearts. It’s so perfect that the fear of it all ending, of him realizing that he doesn’t love me anymore, of him leaving me the same way my mother left, fills the hollow in my chest.

  His eyebrows are tight together. “It’s almost like you don’t want me to love you.”

  “I don’t,” I tell him.

  He takes in a sharp breath and stands up so fast I barely register that he’s opening the front door—

  “Ezra,” I call after him.

  He stops and turns back around to me. “You’re always talking about how you want to be in love. How you think it’s impossible for anyone to love you. Here I am. Telling you I fucking love you.” He raises his hands up, lets them fall to his sides again as he lets out a breath. “I love you, Felix. But—what, am I the only person in the world you don’t want loving you?”

  Someone yells out of a window above us. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Ezra rubs an eye, his cheek. “Fuck it. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything.”