Felix Ever After(23)

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.