Felix Ever After(31)

I bite my lip. Something in the back of my head tells me I should shut the hell up, but once the words have risen, it’s difficult to push them back down again. “It—you know, it kind of pisses me off to hear you complain when you could have anything in the world, if you actually had the—I don’t know, the motivation to do something about it.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Your mom—she loves you, I can tell, even if she doesn’t show it the way that you want her to.”

He’s shaking his head.

“And you could go to any college, any university, just based on your family name and wealth alone—not to mention how talented you are at everything you try. So it pisses me off, you know, it really does, to watch you just waste it all away because—because why? You’re too privileged, and you don’t know what you want to do with your life?”

When he looks at me, the words die in my throat. Ezra’s eyes are narrowed, anger burning, expression smoldering. I don’t think Ezra’s ever looked at me this way before. This is how I honestly feel—have felt for a while now—but I’ve taken it too far. I know I have.

Even if he’s pissed, Ezra’s voice is calm. “I think that you’re projecting,” he tells me.

“What?”

“You’re angry at me for not having the motivation,” he says, “but what about you? You haven’t even started your portfolio yet.”

Anger bites through me. I roll my eyes. “I’m just . . .”

He sits there, watching me, waiting for me to finish my sentence—and as the silence grows between us, and I find it increasingly difficult to swallow, I know that he’s right. Anger retracts to shame. I rub the back of my neck. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Maybe I’m projecting a little.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I am privileged. And I can forget that sometimes. I’m sorry if I seemed ungrateful. I know that I’m really fortunate to have this life. But not knowing what I want to do, not wanting to be forced to follow my father’s footsteps and freaking out about it—that’s all real and valid, too.”

Shit. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I don’t know why I said any of that. I was being a dick.”

“We all fuck up sometimes, I guess.”

“As long as we learn and grow, right?” I roll my eyes at myself. “Maybe it’s the stress. Brown. Fuck, you’re right. I can’t figure out my portfolio, and if I don’t get started soon there’s no way I’m going to have it done in time.”

Ezra’s watching me carefully. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to offend you.”

“Just ask it, Ez.”

“Why do you want to go to Brown?” he asks.

The question surprises me. I blink at him. “I mean—it’s an Ivy League school. It has a dual-degree program with RISD. It’s where I’ve always wanted to go.”

From the look on his face, I can tell Ezra knows there’s more, and that he’s willing to sit there and wait until I’m ready to tell him the whole truth.

“And,” I add, hesitating, “I don’t know. I just want to prove, I guess, that I can get into Brown. That I’m worth an Ivy League school.”

Ezra frowns at that one. “Worth an Ivy League school?” he repeats.

“Yeah. I mean, people can look at someone like you, and there’s no question about it—you’re good enough for an Ivy League. And people like Declan, and Marisol—no one would question whether any of you are worth getting into a place like Brown. But me?” I’m embarrassed now, can feel the heat building in my throat. “I just want to prove that I’m good enough, too. That I deserve it. It’s kind of like proving that—I don’t know, proves I deserve respect and love, too, even if no one else agrees with me. Even if no one else believes it.” I stop myself, and kind of wish I’d stopped about ten sentences ago. Emotion is burning my neck, building up in my face and starting to reach my eyes.

“Okay,” Ezra says. “First of all, I don’t know if you need to prove anything to anyone. Places like Brown and the other Ivy Leagues—they boil your worth down to a bunch of bullshit. You’re not your grades. You’re not your test scores or your college application or even your portfolio.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“Second of all,” he says, “it doesn’t matter what they think. It only matters what you think. Do you think you’re worthy of respect and love?”

My mouth is still open, but now, no sound comes out.

“I think you are,” he tells me, still watching me—totally unashamed to be staring. I almost want to ask him how he can manage to keep eye contact like that, because as the seconds grow, heat builds in my chest, my neck, my face, and I have to blink and look away. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Embarrassment? Self-consciousness? Ezra doesn’t seem to be feeling any of that. I can still sense him looking at me in the dim light.

I try to think of something stupid to say, to fill the awkward silence, but before I can speak there’s a knock on the door down below. “Mr. Ezra?” a voice calls. “Your mother is asking for you.”