Felix Ever After(76)

This kind of wealth reminds me of Ezra and his parents living in their Park Avenue penthouse. I’d been so upset with Ez—jealous, angry that he was taking his privilege for granted, when he’d only wanted to share his fears and vulnerabilities with me, and when he’d only needed my support. I had no idea how lucky I was to have him in my life. How much I’d miss him, if he decided he didn’t want me in his anymore. The question I keep trying to avoid—how do I feel about Ezra?—continues to force itself into my mind, even when I try to push it away.

Declan and I pause in the guest bedroom. This house’s wealth is a little intimidating, and I’m almost too afraid to walk around or touch anything, but Declan doesn’t seem smug about it. I drop my backpack on the floor of the guest bedroom, and Declan lingers, leaning against the doorframe.

“I feel bad getting in the way of you and your grandpa spending time together.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. We’ll join him for dinner.”

I nod, sitting on the edge of the bed. I can’t help but have feelings for Declan. It’s complicated, and it isn’t pretty, and—I don’t know, maybe the feelings we have for each other aren’t really healthy—but none of that changes the fact that I want to kiss him right now.

Declan smiles a little, and I realize—he’s doing this on purpose. The asshole knows I want to kiss him. He’s standing there, waiting, challenging me. I stand up, walk up to him, and try to lean in again, just like I did earlier on the train, but he turns his face away.

I ignore the flinch of hurt. “We don’t exactly have to worry about other people here,” I tell him.

“True,” he says, “but I’m not supposed to make out with houseguests. It’s a rule.”

“Really?”

He smirks at me. “Besides,” he tells me, “the payback is kind of fun.”

“Payback?” When he just grins at me, I ask, “When will the punishment be over?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, gaze falling to my mouth again. He pushes away from the doorframe. “Let’s go to the pool.”

Of course there’s a pool. I close the door and change into shorts before I make my way through the house—get lost around the library and kitchen, double back to get to the dining room and down the hall, to where there’s a mudroom and a set of glass doors. I can see Declan swimming in the ice-blue pool. He comes up to the surface, wiping his hair back and out of his face. He looks up at me when I step outside, then does a double take.

Right. My scars. I immediately wish I’d worn a tank, but I’ve never felt the need to hide my scars before. Why should I feel self-conscious about them around Declan?

“Hey,” he says, squinting up at me.

“Hey.”

I sit down on the edge of the pool, putting my feet into the water, and he pulls himself up, sitting beside me and splashing water onto the masonry that surrounds the pool.

“When’d you get the surgery?” he asks, voice low, leaning into me so that our shoulders bump into one another. The drops of water on his skin are cold.

“Almost a year ago,” I whisper.

“Is it okay if I . . . ?” He reaches, brushing his knuckles against my stomach, my ribs. I nod, and he lets his fingers graze over the scars, following the lines. I tense, and he glances up at me through his lashes. I lean in, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips, and he shoves me—I let out a squeak before I’m in the water, chlorine up my nose and in my eyes. I splutter, bursting out from the water, and Declan’s dying laughing. I splash him, and he laughs again, then shouts when I grab his foot and drag him into the water, too.

We spend hours like that, bullshitting around in the pool, until the sun starts to go down and fireflies dot the grass and the garden. When we get tired, we lie down out on the warm concrete. It’s in a moment like this that I can’t help but think of how much has changed and how quickly—how much I’d hated Declan, and now think I might be in love with him. It’s something I’ve wanted for so long—to have the last name Love, and actually know what it feels like to love and be loved. It’s everything I’d wanted . . . So why does it feel like something’s still missing?

“This is all kind of wild, right?” Declan says. “Five years ago, I never in a million years would’ve thought I could have someone like you over, totally open about everything.” He shrugs, not looking at me. “My dad is hardcore Catholic. I used to hope that he’d decide to change his mind—that he could accept me, because I was his son. And then I’d laugh at myself. Like, how fucking arrogant is that? Expecting my dad to love me more than he loves God.”

I’m not religious. I don’t know how Declan feels. “It’s possible for him to love both you and God, though, right?”

“I hoped so.” He rolls his eyes. “I even tried to write my dad an essay on why it would be okay to accept the fact that I’m into guys. I had this whole thing, explaining that white people once used the Bible as justification for slavery, hoping that’d make him see that—you know, it’s more about interpretation, and the ways people choose to use the Bible as an excuse to treat other people like shit. I hoped that’d change his mind, since my mom’s Black, but it didn’t really do anything. He didn’t even tell me if he read the essay or not. And my mom—I love her, but she just does whatever the fuck my dad wants. He’s so fucking manipulative and abusive, and he convinced her to kick me out of the house, too. That actually hurt more than anything else. The fact that she didn’t even try to fight for me. She just went along with it—let him tell me to leave.”