Felix Ever After(30)

Ezra leads me through the living room and down a hall, into another open space where it’s clear the gala will be taking place. Small circular tables are set up, and there’s even a small stage at the far end of the room. There’re more workers here, arranging a giant ice sculpture and lighting candles on each of the tables and hurrying back and forth with empty champagne glasses on trays. I see a woman with dark skin and curled hair in a gold dress and high heels standing in the center of it all.

“Shit, that’s my mom,” Ezra whispers.

We try to sneak past, but we barely take three steps before she calls Ezra’s name. Ezra mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath as he turns around. I stand to the side, slightly mesmerized. She’s really freaking beautiful. Like, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She has Ezra’s dark eyes and long lashes, his mouth, and even his smile. She clips over to us, arms spread wide, and pulls Ezra into a hug, kisses both of his cheeks and brushes his curls away from his face.

“Ezra, Ezra, my beautiful Ezra,” she says with a slight British accent. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile infectious. I can’t help but grin, seeing the way she looks at him. I feel a flinch of pain, knowing that my mother has never looked at me this way, and probably never will. “I’ve missed you so much, my darling boy.”

Ezra’s smile is strained. I’m confused, watching the two of them. Ez has always told me that his parents treat him like a lapdog: cute when it’s time to take photos, but other than that, they don’t really care about him—and yeah, I guess I could see his dad treating Ezra like that, now that I’ve met him . . . but his mother seems to be overflowing with love for Ez.

He steps out of her hug. “Mom, this is my friend Felix. He’s going to stay for dinner.”

She glances at me, and my heart almost stops under her gaze. I say with a trembly voice, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Patel.”

Though her smile is still plastered on her face, I can feel her taking in my tank, my shorts, the sneakers that I’d scribbled on with a Sharpie. Before she says anything, she notices something behind us—servers, carrying in trays of hors d’oeuvres.

“That belongs in the kitchen,” she says to the staff. She gives Ezra another smile, barely glancing at me. “Excuse me. The party begins in an hour. You should start to get ready. Your father wouldn’t want you to be late,” she tells Ezra. With that, it’s clear we’ve been dismissed. She clips away toward the server, giving her instructions rapidly.

Ezra’s forced smile is gone. I see an echo of what might’ve once been hurt, years ago, and disappointment—but now, his blank expression suggests that this is exactly what he expected from her. “Come on,” he whispers to me. “Let’s hide in my room.”

Ezra’s bedroom has two floors. The first floor has a miniature living room: couches, a flat-screen on the opposite wall, three different gaming consoles, doors to a private bathroom and walk-in closet. The second floor is a loft that holds his gigantic bed. That’s where we sprawl out, maybe because we’re so used to hanging out on his mattress in his Brooklyn apartment. We even keep the lights off. The only glow comes from the miniature world of New York City below, blinking at us from his glass walls. I think I can understand how Ezra might’ve felt like he was a princess locked away in a tower, once upon a time. I feel like I’m in a cage, or in a fish tank with all of these glass walls and windows. Still, even then, jealousy snakes through me.

“Your mom didn’t seem that bad,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” He’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Wait until the party begins. It’s like she thinks she’s the star in a show, and everyone else around is in the audience. She’ll make sure to hug me again when there’re enough people watching.”

“What about your dad?”

“He thinks he’s the scriptwriter,” Ezra says, “sitting by the sidelines and watching his fantasy play out on the stage. He had a special part for me once: loyal son, following in his father’s footsteps to become CEO, entrepreneur, philanthropist . . . What’s funny is that he didn’t even really care that much when I told him I wanted to study art, and that I didn’t want to go to Harvard or Yale for business school. He just revised me out of his play.” He huffs out a short laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time figuring out what I even want to do with my life. I broke free from what my dad expected of me—but now there’re so many options, so many different paths. Which one am I supposed to choose?”

The jealousy mixes with frustration to create an unsavory flavor of bitterness. Ezra’s taking so much for granted. To say, so flippantly, that he decided he didn’t want to go to Harvard or Yale, knowing that his father would’ve paid for everything—knowing that his life is made, no matter what path he takes, and that he’s still complaining . . .

“That seems like a pretty great problem to have.”

He frowns at the ceiling. “What does that mean?”

“I mean—look around you. You’re literally rolling in privilege and wealth. You could do anything.” I shrug. “What do you have to complain about?”

He sits up, blinking at the white sheets beneath us, still not looking at me. “That’s kind of harsh.”