Felix Ever After(28)

“I guess you’re right.”

“You guess I’m right?”

“You’re definitely right.”

Ezra smirks at me and plops a big hand on top of my curls. “I love you, Felix. Okay?”

I glance up at him, and Ezra’s watching me without looking away, just staring at me, waiting for me to say something—for any sort of reaction—but what the hell do I say to that? Ezra’s never said I love you like that before. I know it’s supposed to be something friends who love one another can say, in theory, but . . . it makes me feel a little too vulnerable right now.

“Thanks,” I say, a little uncertain.

He pinches my cheek and lets go when I swat his hand. “Just let me know if I should use different pronouns for you.”

I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

We drink enough cans of Pabst until we’re a fair amount of drunk. The sprinklers on the kids’ side of the park are on, and we go running through them, shouting and chasing each other until we’re soaked through. We dry off on the swings, going back and forth, the metal chains creaking.

“God, I’m so excited for Pride,” Ezra says. “All the parties . . . and the march, too, obviously.”

“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.