Felix Ever After(64)

He shrugs one shoulder. “I wasn’t really angry. Hurt, maybe. But not angry.”

We’re quiet again.

“I mean,” he says, “I drove myself crazy for a little while, you know? Wondering what you two could be talking about. Wondering if you like him more than you like me. Feeling all . . . betrayed, I guess.” He takes a deep breath and stretches his arms behind his head. “But I realized that was all immature bullshit. I don’t own you. It’s stupid that I felt like I did.”

We get to his apartment and stomp up the stairs. I haven’t been here in a few days, when just a couple of weeks ago, this was practically my home. When Ezra opens the door, I step inside, sinking into the familiarity and the comfort of his space—but once I kick off my shoes at the door and look up, I do a double take. The white Christmas lights are still hanging on the walls, blinking and putting the apartment in a soft glow, but the mattress is gone. There’s a giant sofa up against the wall, facing the TV. There’s even an end table with a lamp on it.

He sees my face and grins. “I went to IKEA.”

The door closes behind me. I cautiously head over to the couch and sit on it, testing it out. I sink about two inches. It’s soft as fuck.

Ezra grins at me. “Nice, right?”

“Where’s the mattress?”

“In my room. I still need to get a bed frame.”

I run my hand over the couch’s gray fabric. It’s like velvet. Shit. I feel like I didn’t get to witness a major milestone in Ezra’s life. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him.

He watches me from the kitchen, leaning on the counter. “Yeah. I’ve missed you, too.”

“Me and Declan—we don’t really talk about anything,” I tell him. “Just bullshit most of the time. And . . .” I hesitate. Declan’s story about his father—about being disowned—feels like Declan’s story to tell. I’m not sure I should tell Ezra what’d happened. “And I just tell him stuff about my mom sometimes. That’s all.” I try to ignore the pinch of guilt that I’m lying.

Ezra walks over, white lights glowing against his brown skin, shining against his black hair. He sits on the couch beside me. “Austin was really pissed at me when I broke up with him.”

“Oh.” I don’t really know what to say. “What happened?”

Ezra groans. “It was so fucking bad. We went to Olive Garden yesterday, because I thought it might be better to break up with him if I took him out for dinner or something, and I tried to be nice about it. I told him he’s cute, and I like him a lot, but I just—I don’t know, he isn’t the one for me. And he started crying and telling me that I led him on and all this shit, and he threw the breadsticks at me.”

I almost laugh. I bite my lip to stop myself. “He threw the breadsticks?”

Ez glares at me. “It’s not funny.”

I nod, forcing a frown. “You’re right. Sorry. Not funny.”

Ezra and I are quiet for a second before a snort escapes me. Ezra clears his throat, fighting off his own smile, before we look at each other and crumple into laughter. Once we start, it’s hard to stop.

“But the breadsticks are the best part,” I tell him.

“Right? It was like adding insult to injury.”

He wipes his eyes and hides his face in his hands, and I really hope the tears are from laughing too hard. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice muffled. “I felt like I was forcing myself to go out with him, when I didn’t really want to, and I feel horrible, because I think he might really like me, and . . .”

He unhides his face, watching me, not looking away. He’s in love with me. He really might actually be in love with me. I almost ask him if it’s true. But the heat builds from my chest, up my neck and to my mouth, and suddenly I can’t speak. I swallow and look away.

A beat passes. I take a deep breath.

“I’m jealous,” I tell him, glancing back at him with a small smile.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Jealous? Why?”

I shrug a little, embarrassed. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I’ve never been kissed before. I want that, but the fact that it hasn’t happened yet—I don’t know, it makes me feel like those are things that are meant for everyone else but me.”

Ezra already knows. I’ve told him this before. But now—now, when I think he might be in love with me—it feels like everything I say has a different meaning.

He clenches his jaw as he watches me. We sit in quiet for a long time. So long it starts to feel uncomfortable. I rack my brain for something stupid to say, to get him to laugh, to get us back to the friendship we once had, chilling in the park, high as fuck, talking about anything and everything and nothing at all. God, that feels like years ago now.

Silence. A car passes by outside, lights cast on the wall until it’s gone.

Ezra whispers. “Can I kiss you?”

My gaze snaps up to his. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not drunk.”

He won’t look away. He’s still waiting for my answer. I can’t breathe as I nod. He doesn’t hesitate—he leans in, and I flinch, bump my mouth against his, but he only pauses before leaning in again, more slowly this time. His lips touch mine, my heart thrumming, beating against my chest like it’s trying to jump into his. I inhale against his lips, and he pulls away. My first kiss.