Felix Ever After: Chapters 4–9

Her office—all rich, deep mahogany panels except for the single glass wall—is surprisingly bare and minimalist. Not exactly what you’d expect of an arts school.

Ezra’s been here for almost an entire month now, but he hasn’t bothered buying any furniture with the exorbitant amounts of money his parents gave him to spend.

Two of those are more for aesthetics.

I swipe through Declan’s images. A bunch are pretentious black-and-white photos of himself, set up with severe lighting from antique lamps and gauzy curtains.

Charcoal sometimes, pastel others, simple pencil or ink. But it’s really his use of negative space that’s so stark. It seems simple, at first glance—but it’s the kind of negative space that reminds me of looking up, through the branches of trees, to see the sky shining behind it, or the space that’s between something as fine and intricate as lace.

With his artwork, and his Ivy League pedigree, and his impeccable grades, Declan is definitely going to get a spot at Brown.

“You ask that literally every time,” Ezra says, “and literally every time, I say yes.”
“I don’t want to be presumptuous,” I say.

“I’m—I don’t know, someone with a smidgen of talent, who decided that this is what I wanted to do when I was a kid...”

It feels good to me, to know I’m not alone. That someone else has felt the same way I’ve felt, experienced the same things I’ve experienced. It’s validating.

Declan’s taken up a corner of the room with his collage work spread across two tables (the narcissism is impressive, truly), but I end up in front of a prepped and stretched canvas, acrylic paints waiting in a neat stack beside me.

“The prodigal son returns,” my dad says, only slightly passive-aggressively.

He throws it open, and Marisol comes sauntering in, makeup smeared across her face, tight dress and combat boots on.

Ezra is nowhere near as petty as me—Ezra’s neighbor is a jerk, so I 100 percent would’ve kept the party going—but Ez says things are winding down anyway and turns off the music.

“I can’t in good conscience help your evil Slytherin tendencies.”

“It’s just,” he tells me, “I don’t want you to...I don’t know. Obsess over this?”
“Obsess?”
“Obsess over this, when you could be putting your energy into other things.”

Do you like long exposure photography?

He furrows his brow at me, and even behind his sunglasses,
 I can tell he’s glaring at me.

My foot swings out before my brain even registers what I’ve done.

He just wouldn’t shut up about the gallery, and he was talking about it so smugly, like he was rubbing it in my face...

“We had an argument,” Declan says slowly.
“And?” she prompts.

It’s hard, maybe even impossible, to articulate the feelings I’ve got swarming through me—all of these questions about my identity.

“There’s just this niggling.”
“Niggling?”
“Yeah. A niggling. Like something isn’t quite right, you know? I’ve been doing research online, trying to figure it out, and...”

But I can’t help the twinge of jealousy, either. It seems like everyone around me is always falling in love.

We get off at Forty-Second Street and walk through the massive crowds that push through the hot, sticky streets, flashing lights of Times Square cloaking the night sky in a sheen of white.

He eyes Ezra, like he’s critiquing a piece of art.

I stand to the side, slightly mesmerized.

He had a special part for me once: loyal son, following in his father’s footsteps to become CEO, entrepreneur, philanthropist...

He had a special part for me once: loyal son, following in his father’s footsteps to become CEO, entrepreneur, philanthropist...

Ezra’s eyes are narrowed, anger burning, expression smoldering.

I hit send, feeling a bit proud of myself for fighting back, even if I shouldn’t have had to in the first place—but the victory feels short-lived, tinged with anger and unease.