Felix Ever After(63)

We go to the corner farthest away from the DJ and the speakers. We can at least hear each other when we shout. Ezra pulls his shirt from his back pocket and yanks it on, but not before I get a glimpse at his abs. Ezra catches me looking and grins at me, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t. You know how I feel about Stonewall.”

We get one glass of water and two straws to share.

“Where’s Austin?” I shout to him.

“Huh?”

“Austin—where is he?”

“Oh,” Ezra says. “We broke up.”

He’s in love with his best friend. That guy, Felix.

“What? Why?”

Ezra shrugs. “I don’t know. Can we talk about it later?”

“Sure—yeah.” That’s what I say, even though this is the only thing I want to talk about now.

We lean in, both sipping. Ezra stares at me as we drink.

“What is it?” I ask when I take a breath, pulling away. He’s not in love with me. There’s no way he’s in love with me.

Ezra shakes his head without looking away. “Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am that you’re my friend.”

God, he’s so drunk. “What’s your alcohol intoxication level right now?”

“Not that high,” he says, defensive. When I give him a look, he rolls his eyes. “I grabbed a bottle of champagne from my parents’ place before I left.”

I squint at him. “I thought you were at your apartment. I thought you were sick.”

He shrugs. “I got a little tired of Brooklyn. I needed a break, so I ended up at my parents’ penthouse.”

I frown. Somehow, by Brooklyn, I think he means me. Was he really that upset with me, that I’m still speaking with Declan? Why didn’t he tell me that he’d broken up with Austin?

He’s in love with his best friend.

The music changes to BTS. Lights of all colors start flashing. Everyone screams.

“Shit, I love this song.” Ezra spins around. “Dance with me?”

“I don’t know—”

“I want you to dance with me!”

“I’m not good at dancing.”

“You’re just being self-conscious,” Ezra says, tapping my forehead.

He extends a hand, waiting. I know that he’s right. I’m tired of doing nothing but sitting to the side, watching and wishing I could join in, but too afraid to actually try. And maybe dancing in Stonewall doesn’t feel like much, but it’s still something. I grab Ezra’s hand, and he pulls me back into the crowd and jumps around to the beat, laughing all the while, spinning me in a circle. He puts his hands on my waist, moving us closer. The song changes again. It’s slower, has a deeper bass. The lights get darker. Ezra leans down and puts his head on my shoulder.

“This okay?” he asks against my ear.

Shit. He’s in love with me. Declan’s right. I think Ezra really might be in love with me.

I just nod, nervous that my voice might crack. Ezra presses closer, and it’s not like we haven’t touched before—we’ve hugged a thousand times, cuddled in our sleep, snuggled practically every single day—but his closeness feels different this time. It makes my heart beat a little harder. He pulls his head back from my shoulder and stares at me carefully, like this is totally normal for him, like it isn’t uncomfortable for him to hold my eye contact the way that he does now. He watches me like he’s noticed something, but he isn’t sure what.

The song changes. I let go of Ez and pull away, making my way back to the bar. Ezra follows. His eyes are glazed over.

“You should probably drink some more water,” I tell him, sliding the glass over.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You’re right.”

We don’t dance again for the rest of the night. We sit on our stools, watching everyone else go crazy over songs, laughing and making out and drifting around the dance floor. When Ezra asks me if I’m coming over to his place tonight, I hesitate, a little embarrassed. I liked the way my heart started beating harder, liked Ezra’s fingers on my waist . . . Now, suddenly, everything feels different.

I tell him yes, and we’re out the door, into the summer heat. The entire street in front of Stonewall is closed off, vendors selling rainbow-colored everything in preparation for the march, tourists wandering and taking selfies. We’re quiet as we walk. Quiet as we sit next to each other on the train. Kids shout, “It’s showtime!” They start pumping music, doing flips and spinning around poles.

When we get off the train in Brooklyn and start walking back to Ezra’s place, past the cars lining the street and piles of black garbage bags fluttering in the breeze, I dare myself to speak. “What happened with Austin?”

He still doesn’t want to talk about it—I can tell from the way he runs a hand through his hair, trying to untangle his curls. “I don’t know. I’m just not that into him, and I figured it’s better to break it off now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask him. “I mean—are you really that angry at me?”

His eyes widen. “Angry?”

“Yeah. You know.” I pause. “About Declan?”