Felix Ever After(53)

Marisol rolls her eyes a little, but it’s to keep herself from crying. “So calling me out in front of everyone and making me look like an ass is your idea of loving and respecting women?”

I stop myself from apologizing. She’s probably right—I probably should’ve made this a one-on-one conversation—but something tells me that if I confronted her privately, Marisol would’ve figured out a way to make me feel like I’m being melodramatic, made me think that I’m wrong. I’m grateful Ezra’s by my side right now, even when he has his own reasons to be pissed with me, too.

“You made an ass out of yourself,” Ezra says. “You owe Felix an apology.”

Marisol presses her lips together. “I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You were an ignorant, transphobic fuck,” Ezra says, voice sharp. “That’s not wrong?”

“I don’t think I’m ignorant or transphobic.”

“Come on, Mari,” Leah whispers. “Just apologize.”

“No. Fuck that shit.”

The word transphobic makes me pause. I’ve considered the possibility before, but now, it seems more likely than ever that the person behind the gallery could’ve easily been Marisol, happily going out of her way to humiliate me. If this is how she feels about me, why wouldn’t she be the one who put up that gallery of me?

I ask her. I say, “Were you behind the gallery?”

Marisol’s outright crying now. She knows what I’m talking about. “No. I wasn’t behind the gallery.”

I don’t believe her. “Really?”

She raises her hands. “Everyone already thinks I’m an ignorant dumbass now. I wouldn’t have any reason to hide the fact that I did that stupid gallery.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No, I don’t fucking know. But you know what? I’m happy whoever it was did it.”

Ezra shakes his head, grabbing my hand and pulling me away. “I don’t fuck with you anymore, Marisol. Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, don’t try to pretend to be my friend. We’re done.”

“Same to you, boo-boo,” she calls after us. Ezra just flips her off.

We make it back to the boardwalk, over the railing. I can see Leah arguing with Marisol, Austin’s hand on her arm. Shit. All the drama I’d wanted to avoid is now blowing right up in my face. Now that we’re far enough away, I let the tears roll. I don’t want Ezra to see, but of course he notices. He throws an arm over my shoulder, pulling me close to his side, making it difficult to walk as I keep stumbling into him. He doesn’t say anything. Just kisses the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, hiding my face in my hands.

“Fuck. I hate when you apologize for shit that isn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I nod, because I’m not sure what else to say.

“She’s such an asshole,” Ezra says. “I can’t believe she said that to you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I don’t know. “I guess I was embarrassed.” I hesitate. “Afraid she might be right.”

“She’s not right. Okay? Seriously, Felix, don’t let that shit get into your head. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“God, she’s such an asshole. Christ.” He shakes his head, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, uses the end to wipe his face. “And I don’t fucking believe her. She definitely put up that fucking gallery.”

He’s right—Marisol probably did do the gallery, and even if she didn’t, she most likely knows who did—but suddenly, I feel exhausted. Exhausted by the drama. Exhausted by the anger. I wanted to know who put up that gallery, for revenge—for closure—but now I’m wondering if I even really need any of that. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting, even if it means people like Marisol and grandequeen69 win.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“I said to stop apologizing.”

“No—I mean,” I say, “I’m sorry that I’m still texting Declan.”

Ezra blinks, staring down at the boardwalk beneath our feet, shifting his jaw to the side a little. “I can’t tell you not to text him anymore. But—Christ, why’re you still talking to him?”

“We’ve just . . . I don’t know, connected?” I can’t tell Ezra that Declan has a crush on me. If he’s upset now, I can’t imagine what he’d do or say if he found that out.

“It’s not like I can tell you to stop or anything,” Ezra says. “Is it shitty of me, to be a little jealous?”

“That’s just how you feel, I guess?” I hesitate. “I mean, I was a little jealous back there.”

“Huh?”

“With Austin.”

“Again: huh?”

God. This conversation’s just going around in circles of awkward.

“You’re jealous of me?” Ezra asks. “Or of Austin?”

“Not jealous like that,” I say. “I mean—just jealous that you two even have each other, you know?”

How easy is it for Ezra? He goes from one guy to the next, one relationship to the next. He falls in and out of love. And I just continue to watch from the sidelines. This thing, whatever it is, that I have with Declan is the first time I’ve experienced a connection like this—the first time I’ve felt hope that I could be in my first relationship, be kissed for the first time, fall in love for the first time. It feels fragile, this thing—like it could slip through my fingers like water and spill at my feet.