Felix Ever After(55)

What? NO.

Another second. Then: Are you Ezra?

I actually laugh at that one, though I guess that’s not too far from the truth. No, I’m not Ezra. Is that disappointing?

Not really. I’ve moved on. A beat. To you, clearly.

I raise an eyebrow. You don’t know who I am. You don’t trust me. But you still like me?

The heart wants what the heart wants, right?

I mean, maybe? I wouldn’t really know.

What do you mean?

I mean I’ve never been in love.

You’ve never had feelings for another person?

I hesitate. I had a crush on Marisol, before it turned out she was a raging transphobe, and I’ve thought people are cute before, have been interested, but . . . It depends on your definition of feelings, I guess? I’ve had crushes before, but I’ve never been in love. I don’t know what possesses me, I really don’t, but I just keep going: I mean, I WANT to be in love. That’s something I’ve always wanted to feel. What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too? Is it another level of friendship? Another level of trust, vulnerability, always telling that person your thoughts and feelings, sharing every little thing with them so that you’re so in sync that it’s like you’re one person? Is it like every time you see them, your heart goes wild, and you can’t think because you’re so effing happy? Is it like whenever they’re away, you feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself? Does knowing someone loves you fill you with confidence, because you know you’re the type of person who deserves love? And what’s it like to break up with someone you love? What’s it like to decide to try again, and let yourself fall in love with someone else? To decide to take that chance you might get hurt, but still want to try? I don’t know. But I want to.

Declan takes a while to respond—a minute passes, and another, and another, and I think with fear and worry and just a smidge of relief, yes—I’ve officially done it. I’ve scared him away. But finally, my phone buzzes: What’s stopping you?

I mean, nothing, technically. Except that someone would need to fall in love with me, too.

Can’t you love someone without them loving you?

Yeah, of course, but is unrequited love being IN love, or is that admiration, love from afar? And besides, I don’t think anyone would fall in love with me.

Again, Declan doesn’t answer. My eyes are starting to become so heavy I can barely keep them open. The thunderstorm is finally dying down—there aren’t any echoing booms that could potentially be the end of the world, anyway, and the rain isn’t coming down as hard—but there are still flashes of lightning. I’m about to lie down when my phone starts to buzz—and doesn’t stop.

Declan’s calling me.

I freak out. Drop the phone and watch it vibrate on the mattress. I should just let it go to voice mail. He probably called me accidentally, or . . .

Weirdest of all, though? I kind of want to hear his voice.

I snatch it up from the bed and swipe open the answer icon at the very last second. I open my mouth, but then it hits me—what if he recognizes my voice?

Declan speaks on the other end. “Hello?”

He sounds the same as he always does. Once upon a time, hearing Declan’s voice would make me want to hand-to-God strangle anyone and anything standing too close to me . . . but now, I only hear his deep voice with an uncertain tone, maybe even a little shy, nervous—but with some anticipation, too.

“Lucky?” he says. “You there?”

I stand up, wobbling on the mattress, and jump onto the wooden floor, slipping a little as I run down the hall and slide into the bathroom, closing the door behind me so that I’m in almost-total darkness, purple shadowed light filtering in through the tiny window. I climb into the tub and huddle against the cold porcelain.

“Yeah,” I whisper. My voice squeaks a little, embarrassingly. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“I should’ve asked if I could call first,” he says. “Sorry. I just—without thinking, I just pressed the call button—”

“It’s okay. It’s all right.” My heart’s going way too hard, way too fast. I’m nervous as hell. Scared, too. What if he figures out that it’s me? Do I have a recognizable voice? Should I try to lower it, so he can’t tell?

“I wanted to hear your explanation,” he says. “I mean, I can’t believe you don’t think anyone would fall in love with you.”

I laugh a little—I can’t help it. “So you had to call me so I could tell you?”

“I also wanted to hear your voice,” he admits. “Make sure you aren’t Jill.”

I laugh harder at that one. I can hear him laughing, too. I’m not sure I’ve heard Declan laugh, not once since he broke up with Ezra. It’s a nice sound—trailing, like he might remember the joke days later and keep on laughing.

He speaks softly. “You really think no one could fall in love with you?”

I bite my lip. “It’s a little hard to explain.”

“Try anyway.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I mean . . . I don’t want you to know who I am.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

Everything. The fact that I’m Black, the fact that I’m queer, the fact that I’m trans. “It’s like every identity I have . . . the more different I am from everyone else . . . the less interested people are. The less . . . lovable I feel, I guess. The love interests in books, or in movies or TV shows, are always white, cis, straight, blond hair, blue eyes. Chris Evans, Jennifer Lawrence. It becomes a little hard, I guess, to convince myself I deserve the kind of love you see on movie screens.”