Felix Ever After(33)

My dad and I never really spoke after our last blow-up fight. I have no idea if he’s still pissed at me. After what I just witnessed of Ezra’s parents, I’m dealing with a mix of emotions. On the one hand, I have a warm feeling of gratitude for my dad. He makes a lot of mistakes, but at least he cares enough to sit down with me at dinner and ask me how my day was and act like he actually wants me around—to not abandon me in some apartment while he travels the world. But on the other hand, I still can’t help but be annoyed with him for all the shit he says and does. He wants me to know he’s trying—but I’m not sure if there should be anything for him to try. If he loves me, and he knows that I’m his son, then it should be easy for him to say my correct pronouns, even if I’m not always so sure of them myself. It should be easy for him to say my name.

I make it to our apartment building, up the elevator, and down the hallway. The AC is blasting when I unlock the front door. My dad sits on the couch, feet up on the coffee table while Captain precariously balances on the sofa’s thin armrest.

My dad looks over his shoulder at me, his expression falling a little. “Hey,” he says. “It’s after ten. I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.”

“Is it okay that I’m back?” I close the door behind me.

I’m just joking—sort of—but my dad clearly doesn’t think I’m very funny. He frowns at me before turning back to the TV.

I kick off my shoes and drop my backpack, sitting on one of the plush chairs, putting a pillow in my lap and fiddling with the fringe. Captain leaps onto the pillow and stretches, claws prickling the fabric. I try not to move, so that I don’t scare her off. It’s enough to simply bask in the blessing the Captain has bestowed upon me.

“How was your day?” my dad asks, eyes glued to some cooking show.

“Fine,” I say, staring anywhere but at him. Captain’s ears twitch as she gets comfortable.

“How’s Ezra?”

I decide to take a risk and reach for Captain’s back to pet her, but as soon as I shift my arm, she’s gone—onto the floor, tail twitching. She pads away. So, so close. “All right,” I say. “With his parents.”

My dad nods, and that’s the end of our conversation. We never really talk about what I want to talk about. I never ask him what I wish I were brave enough to: Why doesn’t he call me by my real name? Why was he willing to help me so much with my transition, but he can’t stand the idea that he has a son?

I grab my phone from my pocket and flip open random apps until I make it to Instagram. The app itself makes my heart spike with anxiety now, but I have to stick with my plan if I want to make Declan pay for what he’s done—for his stupid anonymous messages as grandequeen69. He would’ve looked me right in the eye earlier today, knowing that he was going to send me that transphobic post tonight. How fucking evil and vindictive can a person be?

I log into my luckyliquid95 account, scrolling through the feed—Ezra’s posted one of his parents’ dinner party, looks like it’s still going strong, and Marisol has baked a blueberry pie. Declan’s uploaded something recently also. Another piece of art. The moon, craters and all, created by crumpled-up pieces of newspaper clippings. Frustration and jealousy pumps through me. It’s beautiful. Even I have to admit that the piece is extraordinary. It doesn’t seem fair, that such an evil bastard can be so talented.

I double tap to like the image. Ask in the comment section what it means. As I type, I try to imagine Declan—maybe in his father’s SoHo apartment, legs crossed as he sits on his bedroom floor, pieces from his collage-themed portfolio spread out all around him. Just an hour or so ago, he would’ve decided he was bored, or—I don’t know—feeling particularly diabolical, and grabbed his phone to send me that message. I try to see it in my head, to remind myself why I’m doing this . . . but the more I try to imagine Declan caring enough to actually take the time and energy to send me a message on Instagram, just so that he can hurt me, the harder it is to picture it.

It’s true, I guess, that I don’t really have any proof that he was behind the gallery, or that he’s actually grandequeen69. I don’t know. Maybe Ezra has a point. Maybe this revenge plan isn’t really worth it. I can’t stop thinking about earlier today—sitting on the bench beside Declan, our argument in the lobby, his weird-ass apology. The overwhelming realization that the guy looking at me was the guy I’m fucking with online, even as fury beat through me.

“This show always makes me hungry,” my dad says, staring at the TV.

I get a response from Declan a second later.

thekeanester123: The point isn’t really what it means to me. It’s what it means to you.

Is that his way of asking what his piece means to me? Christ, why can’t he just say that?

luckyliquid95: I guess it means . . . I don’t know, this dichotomy. Newspaper clippings, symbolizing the world and humans and all our problems, crumpled up into a ball of the moon, so far away from it all. It makes me feel lonely.

thekeanester123: Lonely? Is the moon lonely to you?

luckyliquid95: Yeah. I mean, that’s the feeling I always get, anyway, whenever I look up at it.

thekeanester123: I look at the moon, and I can’t help but think of everyone else on the planet who’s looking up at it, too, and how alone I am, even though we’re all here on the same Earth. I think about the fact that we should all be connected, but we’re not. We’re too preoccupied trying to hurt each other. It makes me think of how hypocritical I can be, and the mistakes I’ve made, and the ways I’ve hurt people, too.