Felix Ever After(35)

Another chef is sent home, and the winner cries victorious tears as he thanks his daughter for being his inspiration, his motivation, his very reason for living. My dad sniffs from the kitchen as he clatters pots and pans.

Declan sends his number. No pressure.

I hesitate, finger hovering over the screen. We never had each other’s numbers, even when we used to hang out. Ezra was always the point person between us, so I would text Ez, and Declan would text Ez, and we’d end up at the same place. But now . . .

This is a good thing, right? This means Declan’s opening up to me. Starting to trust me.

I press the number and hold before hitting the send message button that pops up. My heart’s going a little too crazy. I type out a short text:

Hey. It’s Lucky, from Instagram.

Declan responds almost immediately.

Thanks for texting. Didn’t know if you would. Not that I would blame you. Texting with a stranger is a little weird, right?

I don’t know. Maybe?

I wouldn’t normally do it, but there’s something about your comments, I guess.

What do you mean?

Your comments are open. Vulnerable. Honest. No one’s ever like that. Makes me want to be the same way.

You’re not normally open?

Nope.

Why not?

I don’t know. It isn’t easy to make yourself vulnerable like that. Makes it easier for people to hurt you.

I frown at that one. Do people hurt you a lot?

Maybe not more than anyone else. Don’t you ever get hurt?

I’m not actually very open and vulnerable in real life.

Really? That’s surprising. Maybe it’s because we’re strangers that you open up more. . . .

Yeah. Maybe.

Declan doesn’t answer for a while. My father’s making popcorn. It’s sizzling and burning in the microwave. When my phone buzzes, my eyes scan the screen.

I have to start getting ready for bed, but is it okay if I text you again in a little while?

I don’t know why I’m excited. I really, really shouldn’t be this excited.

Yeah. Sure. I’d be okay with that.

I keep texting with Declan. While I’m brushing my teeth, under the sheets in bed with the lights off, I’m glued to the screen that buzzes in my hands every few seconds. At first we only talk about art and his new collage pieces, but the texts eventually spiral. I lie on my back in my bed, Captain curled up at my feet—it’s three a.m., and my dad thinks I’m asleep.

Are you kidding me? First best show is Boruto, THEN FMA: Brotherhood, then Death Note.

You’re out of your mind, I tell him. Out of your freaking mind. How can you put BORUTO before FMA?

Boruto’s hilarious.

FMA is funny!

Yeah, but Boruto also made me cry.

And you didn’t cry during FMA??? What are you, a monster?

Declan sends some laughing emojis. After a pause, another message comes in.

That’s one of the things you’re thinking of doing after college, right? Declan asks. Working in animation?

I hesitate. It was a random tidbit I’d slipped into our conversation earlier. I’d told him that I liked illustrating other people—could see myself working in comics or animation as a character designer, though I’m not really positive that’s what I want to do. I told him that getting into college was the be-all, end-all right now, so it was hard to think about what would come after. I regret telling him any of that now, though. Would it be easier for him to figure out who I am?

Yeah. I like Disney/Pixar. A part of me wants to run away to California and start interning for them.

Not a bad dream. What’s stopping you?

It’s not exactly easy to just pick up and go. I’m only seventeen.

Right. Sometimes I just want to say fuck it all. Leave school, not go to college, just travel the world or something.

That’s effing news to me. Why?

I don’t know. All this pressure, I guess.

I have split emotions. One half of me wants to tell him to leave, then. Get the hell out of here. There are people who could use the spot he’ll inevitably get when he applies for school. Why go to college if he doesn’t even really want to? It pisses me the hell off, thinking that after all this, he doesn’t even want the spot at Brown, or the scholarship—and he might still get it over me.

The other half, though, completely understands what he means. All this pressure fills me up so much that it’s hard to think, hard to move, hard to even breathe. How nice would it be, to not care? To just take a gap year? Travel and dream and learn more about who I am? Maybe all the answers to the questions I have about myself would materialize out of thin air.

Is your name really Lucky? he asks me.

Why do you ask?

I don’t know. I’m curious about you, I guess. I like talking to you.

I sit up, my chest getting warm. This is Declan Keane, I try to remind myself. This is Declan fucking Keane. The guy behind the gallery, who’s been sending messages on Instagram. But right here, right now . . . it’s hard to believe that it was really him. Maybe I’m just telling myself that, because I’ve actually been enjoying our conversation, which seems impossible. Wrong, even.

Sorry if that’s weird, he says.

It’s not weird. I take a deep breath, even though it’s absolutely, completely weird. I like talking to you, too.