Felix Ever After(29)
“To your parents’ dinner party?”
“It’s supposed to be a fund-raiser.” His voice sounds pained. He’s even wincing.
I hesitate and look down at my tank and my shorts. “I’m not exactly dressed for a gala.” Not to mention I’ve never even met Ezra’s parents before. From all the stories he’s told me, they sound horrifying.
“I’ve got some button-downs and ties that might fit you,” he tells me.
In all the three years that I’ve known Ezra, I’ve never been to his childhood home on Park Avenue. Any brief mention about the penthouse apartment was always described like a tower in a fairy tale, where Ezra was the princess, locked away and desperate to escape. He’d spend every second he could away from that place, even before his parents bought him his Brooklyn apartment. It isn’t exactly the average teenager’s experience growing up, I guess—but then again, Ezra Patel isn’t an average teenager.
“It could be fun,” he says. “We eat, we drink, we dance, we piss off the Manhattan elite . . .”
Though he flashes a small smile, I can see the desperation in his eyes, too. He doesn’t want to go back—not alone. I start to wonder if there’s a place Ezra ever feels . . . I don’t know—safe, maybe, somewhere he can go and know that he’ll be loved, no matter what. Even if my dad messes up, I know that he loves me. Does Ezra have that, too?
Ezra looks like he’s on the edge of begging me to come, and even if I’m nervous about it, I want to be there for him. “Okay. I mean—yeah, let’s go.”
He rewards me with a grin as he throws an arm over my shoulder. “Thanks, Felix.”
As we walk to the station, I tug on the end of Ezra’s T-shirt. “Hey,” I tell him, “about what you said earlier—with Austin being your new special friend. I’m happy for you. Really.”
He watches me closely before giving me the twitch of a smile. “Thanks.”
Nine
WE TAKE THE EMPTY G TRAIN TOGETHER BEFORE WE TRANSFER to the 7 at Court Square. The icy train is filled with drunk businessmen swaying on their feet and tourists staring at the map on the train’s wall, arguing in Italian. We get off at Forty-Second Street and walk through the massive crowds that push through the hot, sticky streets that smell like piss and garbage, flashing lights of Times Square cloaking the night sky in a sheen of white. I follow Ezra down streets and avenues, away from the crowds and closer to Park Avenue, to a building of classic stone and intricate architecture. A doorman tips his hat at us as an older woman with a snippy little dog on a leash walks past.
The lobby is all marble—floors, walls, and ceiling. There’s a huge golden chandelier above the lobby’s receptionist, who says good evening with a smile. “Welcome back, Mr. Patel.”
“Mr. Patel? I feel like I’m in Downton Abbey,” I whisper to him as we get on the elevators, all glass walls and glimmering lights. I try not to look visibly uncomfortable, to not fidget or smooth down the creases in my tank. It’s even more unsettling to notice how relaxed Ezra seems with all of this. Seeing him stand tall, eyes glazed with boredom, really brings home the fact that he grew up in this sort of wealth—and that he still is incredibly fucking rich. There’s a pinch of jealousy in my chest, alongside the guilt. I shouldn’t be jealous of Ezra, especially when I know how hard of a time he’s had with his parents, but I can’t help it. What would my dad and I do with even a tenth of this kind of money? We’d probably still be in Brooklyn in our apartment, for starters; I wouldn’t feel so guilty about attending St. Catherine’s, and maybe all that stress and pressure wouldn’t get to my head. Maybe I’d be a better student.
The elevator lets us off on the top floor with a ding, the doors sliding to show the entryway of the actual apartment. My mouth gapes open, and I don’t even bother to close it. The marble floors shine, and the walls—it looks like they’re thirty feet high—are all glass, looking out over the New York City skyline of skyscrapers and blinking lights. The space itself is huge. I could fit ten of my apartments in this living room alone. There’re some servers getting ready for the party with bottles of champagne in buckets of ice. A man with broad shoulders, a straight back, and a neatly trimmed goatee stands by the door in a three-piece suit, arms crossed as he watches the workers bustle around. He glances at Ezra, unfolds his arms and extends one large, meaty palm. Ezra shakes the man’s hand.
He eyes Ezra, like he’s critiquing a piece of art. “You look well,” the man says with a gruff voice. “Despite the outfit.”
“Thank you,” Ezra says with a surprising amount of formality, ignoring the jab. “This is Felix Love.”
The man nods to me, extending a hand also so that I can shake it. I’m a little confused by who he is—until I actually take a second to look at him. He and Ezra have the same noses, the same brows.
“Your mother is around here somewhere,” Mr. Patel says. He sounds both bored and exhausted. “Get changed, before she sees you like this.”
Ezra nods and gestures at me to follow him. I glance over my shoulder at Mr. Patel. Isn’t this the first time they’re seeing each other in months? I get annoyed at my dad, but I couldn’t imagine him practically ignoring me, not being excited or happy to see me after that much time. But Ezra doesn’t seem bothered. He acts like this is completely normal. For him, I guess it is.