Felix Ever After(45)

I’m not really thinking when I pull out my phone and scroll past my conversation with Ezra, pulling up Declan’s last message to me.

I hope you tell me who you are.

Because this is what’s weirdest of all. Sorry in advance.

But I think I might be falling for you.

I bite my lip, staring at the messages, and I take a breath—type and release:

I can’t tell you who I am.

If I were Declan, I would’ve purposely waited at least five hours to respond as payback for my all-day silence, but he gives zero fucks—he answers right away:

Okay. I won’t push you to tell me.

I try to imagine him answering his messages—maybe he’s at home, curled up in front of the TV on the sofa, or maybe he’s hanging out with James and Marc, trying to hide his phone as he texts. Is he surprised I answered? Relieved? I hesitate, then type: You say you’re falling for me. How can you like me if you don’t even know who I am?

Declan takes a little longer to respond to that one. I know it’s stupid. You could be literally anyone. I’ve been driving myself crazy all day, looking at everyone around me, wondering who you might be. And I don’t even know if you really go to St. Catherine’s or not.

Same thing I’ve been doing—looking around, wondering who was behind the gallery, who might still be sending me those Instagram messages. I feel a pinch of guilt. I know how he feels. I sit down beside my canvas, cross-legged. Are you mad I won’t tell you who I am?

No. A little frustrated. But only because I wish we could talk in person.

I don’t respond to that. Another text comes in.

I’m really happy you texted me back. I was afraid I scared you off.

To be honest? You kind of did.

Sorry . . . I know it’s weird to have a crush on you without even knowing who you are. But I really like talking to you.

It’s embarrassing to admit to this. I have no idea why I’m admitting this. I like talking to you, too.

Can we keep talking? Even if I have a weird crush on you?

I try not to smile. Yeah. I guess that’d be okay.





Thirteen


Hey Mom,

You know when life is just about as confusing as it can possibly be, and then you think to yourself, well, at least it can’t get any worse than this, but then life is like, ha, really, you think so, huh? And then, just to prove you wrong, it gets even more freaking confusing than it was before, so your entire life is nothing but a whole-ass mystery—always a shit ton of questions, but never any answers?

Okay. Maybe that’s an exaggeration.

. . . Except, not?

I feel like I’ve never had more questions in my life than right now. Declan isn’t the person who was behind the gallery, so the first question: Who the hell was? Leah’s been helping, doing things I probably shouldn’t put down into an email, before the FBI shows up at St. Cat’s . . . but I’m not sure our plan is really going to work.

Declan, it turns out, is actually kind of nice and interesting and smart and funny . . . And, on top of that, he says that he’s falling for me. So, second question: How do I feel about him? It seems totally impossible, but—well—I think I might be starting to like him, too. I don’t know. It’s the first time anyone’s ever said they like me, and it feels really freaking good. Like I can rub it in everyone’s faces. See? Someone thinks I deserve to be loved, even if you didn’t.

But my third question is: How would Ezra feel about any of this? I’d be really pissed off, if I were him—pissed off and hurt. Is it fucked up of me, to keep talking to Declan? (I guess that’s technically two questions. Oh well.)

Fourth question, completely unrelated to all of the above, except not, because it’s the most important question of all: What the hell is my identity?

I’ve been looking up a shit ton of terms, but every definition—every label—makes me feel more frustrated. There’re so many ways for a person to identify . . . So why doesn’t anything feel right for me? Is it possible to not have an identity? To exist, without any labels to say who I am and who I’m not? Maybe that’d feel good for some people, but for me, I’d feel anchorless—drifting with no one to say if what I’m feeling is real—if this emotion is something that I’ve made up in my mind, or if it’s something that others have felt, too.

There’s another question I might as well ask, I guess, since there’s no way in hell I’m going to send this email to you:

Why did you leave?

Dad doesn’t really like to talk about it. Sometimes, people just fall out of love.

I guess that means you didn’t love him anymore. You must’ve told him that, before you decided to leave us. I wonder how things looked from your perspective. Did you really think that you were just going on a trip to clear your head, or had you already decided you weren’t coming back? Was it really just a coincidence that you met your new husband there, or had you actually already known him, had already been cheating on my dad? When you kept extending your trip, did you even notice that you were making fewer phone calls as the days went on? That you were becoming too busy to answer the phone whenever I tried to call, because your new kid always had soccer or homework or piano lessons? You said you’d call me back, but you never did, and . . .

I guess that brings me to my last question: Did you stop loving me, too?