Chapter 22
Felix
Robert marches into my bedroom without even knocking and begins rattling off everything that will happen this evening.
“Will you be providing the party horns and noise makers, or should I have purchased those in advance?” I ask.
He’s not amused. Not one bit. “This is an incredibly important fundraising event for your father. Margaret Ebelstein and Theodore McClane will both be in attendance, and a donation from just one of them would be critical for your father’s campaign.”
Yes, yes, yes, many rich assholes will be in attendance, and dear old daddy has been deep throating cucumbers in preparation all week. “Don’t worry, Robert. I’ll be there, cheering on our fearless leader with the vim and vigor of a North Korean propaganda squad.”
Robert narrows his eyes, surely wishing he had the telekinetic powers to make me spontaneously combust. “Have you taken your medication today?” he asks.
Nope! “Of course, I’ve taken my medication. I’m not a fool, Robert. Tonight’s imperative for my father’s success.”
I make sure I say it with as flat an affect as possible to give the illusion that the medical straitjacket Father tried to put me in is still coursing through my veins. I stopped taking them shortly after my dream, and it’s been nearly a week.
And what an emotional roller coaster of a week it’s been.
“Good,” Robert says with relief. “Please be downstairs in two hours.”
I nod and watch him exit my bedroom and close the door.
“Ass-kissing sycophant,” I mutter under my breath.
Thank God. Now I can sleep. I didn’t do anything right when I stopped my pills.
Someone with good sense would have tapered them off gradually, but I never really did anything gradually.
I keep some in my backpack, in case his aides ever search me, but most went down the toilet the morning after my dream.
The lethargy I’ve been living with post-meds is intense, but at least I’m sleeping again.
Speaking of sleeping.
Two hours is just enough time to take a nap. I disrobe and crawl into bed in just my underwear, and the first thought that enters my brain is, “I wonder if Torren would like the panties I’m wearing?”
They’re not my sexiest, but they’re neon green briefs. I imagine he likes black, but perhaps he’d find the splash of color against my skin exciting.
Yesterday, when I saw him at the game, I was sure I was hallucinating. I’d started hallucinating the longer I took the pills, and, even though I’d stopped, there was a possibility they hadn’t fully left my system.
But then I caught sight of Derek Obringer, wiping mustard and ketchup off his neck, and turning back to glance at Torren every so often.
And Torren was shooting him a look that could have turned a man to stone.
That’s when my mind started connecting the dots.
The rev of his motorcycle at the press conference, the vision of him parked outside my house, and then his sudden appearance right when my old high school bully magically stopped tossing chips at me and was somehow drenched in condiments and fear…
It all feels too coincidental.
Is he following me?
Or am I looking for meaning where there is none?
Again.
Maybe I am hallucinating?
Jesus, I wish I knew what to do. I’m so scared the dream was just another figment of my imagination, and that the last thing I should be doing is stopping medication.
But, then again, my mother was the only one in my whole life who told me to trust my instincts.
When you’re queer, and your dad is a big, homophobic toad, you spend most of your time doing the opposite of what you want to do, because the real you is “wrong.”
You stop listening to that little voice in your head because it keeps telling you to do things that get you into trouble. After a while, you can’t hear that little voice at all.
But the day after my dream, that little voice came back and told me to flush those pills down the toilet. So, I listened.
Because I have to, all I have in this life is me, and if I can’t trust myself, then who do I have?
Nobody.
I don’t want to be medicated into something I’m not. I want to be me. I want to feel alive. I wasn’t put on this earth to conform—I was put here to find my own way.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Right after I take a two-hour nap, because even rebellion needs rest.
Torren
The Mayor’s Mansion is even more ridiculous than I could have imagined. Security ordered us to enter through the back because God forbid the help might enter through the front entrance. As I pass the staircase leading to the second floor, I notice Mayor Hargrove’s paintings and almost bust a gut.
They look almost ironic, like something you’d see in a sitcom. We all convene in the kitchen, and the event lead grills us on how to behave around rich people, as if we’re neanderthals who might sniff their asses if not told otherwise.
The door to the ballroom is open, and I look up at the massive chandelier, painting the room with a warm glow. Everything is gold, and I mean everything.
It’s funny to see the opulence of Felix’s actual life.
“You ever worked one of these before?” one of the other servers whispers.
I look him up and down, surveying his body language, ensuring he’s not a threat. He’s not. Just another guy here to make a buck. “I’ve worked events like this before, but never one here,” I reply casually.
“Well, get ready for a fuckin’ show. This is my third time at the Mayor’s Mansion.
Hargrove always makes a grand entrance, and the guests are the absolute worst. The only one who was ever polite was the Mayor’s wife, and she offed herself earlier this summer.
Poor, lady. She must have been miserable. ”
I should have been more understanding with Felix when he was pestering me. I’d read his mom died, but I didn’t think about that—too busy being a selfish prick. I lift the tray of caviar waffle bites and casually ask, “Hargrove’s got a son, right? Does he ever come to these things?”
“Yeah, but he’s usually pretty quiet and tends to sneak out as soon as the Mayor’s big reveal is finished—never really chatted with him before.” The event lead finishes his spiel, and we exit the kitchen together, each one of us holding a tray. “I’m Lou,” he says.
“Peter,” I reply.
“I’ll see you around. Don’t drop anything or you’ll never be invited back,” he warns.
“Noted.”
The Mayor’s staff begins ushering guests into the ballroom, and my eyes zero in on how much money these people are wearing. The old me would have robbed these old biddies blind.
Not tonight. Focus.
The event drags on, the little glimmers of conversation I catch making me nauseous.
Felix has yet to make an appearance, and I’m starting to get nervous.
What if he’s sick?
I mentally start thinking of how I might sneak away and search the house, when his face suddenly appears in the doorway of the ballroom.
The warmth in my chest spreads, fast and unexpected. Like it’s been waiting for this.
That should concern me, but I ignore those thoughts and move toward him on instinct.
He looks better than he has in a while. His eyes, while nervous, are a little more alive than they have been, and the green of his irises is more stunning than ever.
He’s wearing a navy blue suit that fits him like a glove, accentuating those long limbs of his.
I close the distance between us, navigating the crowd, when someone stops me in my tracks and unloads a barrage of questions about the fucking caviar on my tray.
“Young man, do you chill the plate? Warm porcelain ruins the pearls.”
Why don’t I hit you over the head with it, and you can tell me if it’s warm?
I make up some answer, hoping to get her away from me, but she goes on and on.
I don’t even know what I’m saying as I rattle off one answer after another. She ends up not taking one of the hors d’oeuvres —which is absolutely insufferable—and when I look up to find Felix again, he’s gone.
With downcast eyes, my body deflates. I feel someone tapping me on my shoulder, and I almost scream.
I swear to God if I get grilled about fish eggs again…
When I turn around, Felix stands before me.
“Are you a hallucination?” he asks.
My mouth falls open. He’s here. He’s speaking to me.
Then I register what he asked and almost fall over.
“Am I a what?”
Felix narrows his eyes and points at me. “If you’re a hallucination, I’m going to punch you. Are you?”
I finally shake the shock out of my system and answer, “What? No! Why would you be hallucinating?”
My mind goes back to that picture of him in the paper—between the way his eyes looked and the fact that he thinks he’s hallucinating…
He looks at me with suspicion and adds, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Alright. Be cool, Torren. You prepped for this. You’re here to make sure he’s okay. That’s it.
“I wanted to check on you.”
The words sit wrong in my mouth.
Too honest.
Too exposed.
“Check on me? Why?”
Suddenly, my throat feels like the Sahara Desert, and I tug on my tie to try to breathe again. “Be-because…” My brain freezes. What do I even say to that? I’m at a loss for words until I finally blurt out, “Because I was worried about you.”
Felix’s face looks like an animation of every emotion a human can display.
From shock, to disbelief, to contemplation, then softness.
His knitted brows smooth and his features relax, revealing his gorgeous features.
He tries to say something, but stops himself, then visibly works up the courage to speak again. “Were you at the game yesterday?”
I pause, knowing that the answer to this question will most likely lead him to think I’ve been stalking him, which is…accurate, but it’s not what he thinks. “Yeah, I was at the game.”
Felix stares at me in shock. His mouth falls open, and he scans my face, clearly trying to make sense of my nonsensical brain.
Then, he gasps and asks, “Did you do something to Derek Obringer?”
My head tilts. Who? Then it dawns on me that he must be talking about the asshole. “The dude who was tossing chips at you?”
His eyes widen, and Goddamn if they don’t sparkle like emeralds beneath the chandelier light. He nods, and I reply. “Sure did.”
Felix’s chest rises and falls in rapid succession. I can’t tell if he’s upset or happy because he’s smiling, but he looks overwhelmed. “Why?” he asks.
“Because he was bothering you. He was throwing chips at you. What kind of person does that to someone? How old does he think he is? 12?”
Felix chuckles and replies, “Intellectually? Yeah, I’d say 12. He was one of my bullies in high school.”
One of them? I can feel my neck growing hot with rage. “How many bullies did you have? Are they still in town?”
This time, Felix releases a full-throated guffaw. “Would you find each one and do to them what you did to Derek?”
“Fuck, yeah, I would!” I realize too late that I shouted that, and the guests closest to us look on with shock and horror.
Felix covers his mouth to muffle his laughing, and the event lead approaches. “Is anything wrong?” he asks, looking at me with fury blazing in his eyes.
“Not at all,” Felix replies. “This is an…old friend.”
The event lead’s jaw clicks, and he leans in and whispers, “Language, please…”
“Noted. Sorry.”
He saunters off, leaving me with Felix. I signal for him to follow me to a far corner of the room away from everyone, because I want to talk.
Really talk.
“Look, I know this is weird—I’m the one who pushed you away. I get it, but I have to know you’re okay. You didn’t look like yourself. Is it my fault, or are they,” I motion to the general world he has to live in, “doing something to you?”
He stares at me with an unreadable expression on his face. “Do you care?” he asks.
His words cut me to my core, because he’s asking what I’ve been trying to convince myself wasn’t true for weeks.
Yes, I care—a lot.
I could kick myself for winding up this way, but it’s the truth. Felix can’t be hurting. Not the way he was at that press conference or in the picture in the newspaper. “Yes.” My eyes turn away because I can’t even look at him when I say it.
Coward.
When I turn to him again, my face hot with embarrassment, he smiles, easing my humiliation a little, and says, “I’m okay.”
It’s the first time I’ve felt relief since I pushed him away. “Good.”
He tilts his head, a look of awe on his face. “You were in front of my house a few nights ago, and at the press conference. I heard your motorcycle.”
Well, if he wasn’t going to call security before, he will now.
Yes, officer, I’m a full-fledged stalker.
“Yeah. It was me.” Sadness settles in. Here, I’ve been trying to push Felix away for weeks, and now, he’s about to push me away, and how do I feel?
Awful.
This is it. It’s over. But I want this version of Felix burned in my mind for eternity—healthy, hot, and looking dapper as hell. So, I look up and take him in, memorizing every feature for the future.
His face is kind and sweet. It’s a new look for him, and it makes me feel warm all over.
“You do care,” he says with amazement.
I can’t breathe. I want to hug him, hold him. Slant our lips together and whisk him away from this place, but I can’t. All I can do is reply, “I do,” in a strangled voice.
We stand there, two men without a clue on what to say or how to navigate this situation, when it hits me that the thought of saying, “Well, I just wanted to check in. Have a nice life,” makes me depressed beyond words. Maybe I can be close without hurting him? Maybe we can be…friends?
All I know is the idea of not seeing him again makes my heart ache. Every logical brain cell I have is screaming at me to run away. Instead of listening to my brain, which I have a habit of neglecting and abusing with alcohol, I blurt out, “Can I take you out for coffee after this?”
His cheeks grow red, and his smile brightens. Fuck, he’s so good-looking. “I could probably sneak away after my father makes his big entrance.”
“Okay. J-just a coffee, you know. To talk. I don’t…” I’m stuttering, trying to rationalize why I pushed him away, how I can’t be with him, yet acknowledge that I need to see him at the same time, when he rescues me from my spiral.
“Just a coffee. Between friends.”
“Yeah. Friends.”
The music picks up speed, and the crowd begins to move toward the entrance of the ballroom.
Felix whips his head in the direction of the commotion. “I have to go genuflect before the king. I’ll find you after?”
I nod, and he leaves.
My eyes close in frustration. I shouldn’t be doing this; to him or to me, but especially not to him, but I can’t take it. I need to talk to him—keep tabs and make sure he’s alright.
Just friends.