Chapter Sixteen. The Right Fireworks at the Wrong Time
Chapter Sixteen
The Right Fireworks at the Wrong Time
“ Jesus!” I exclaim and jolt backward, slamming my elbow into the hotel doorframe. Standing roughly a foot away, Mateo cringes. Calum stands beside him.
“
My heart rate slows as I look between them. “Why are you lurking outside my door?”
Mateo awkwardly messes with the hem of a threadbare denim jacket. “We need your help.”
This piques my interest, but Ginger is squirming at my feet, needing to go potty. “Walk with me,” I tell them, and head for the elevator.
“Obviously you know what today is,” Mateo starts once we’re inside.
“Yeah. The Fourth of July,” I answer.
They exchange a look.
“It’s also Lix’s nineteenth birthday,” Calum supplies. He pulls his hair out of its unicorn-horn ponytail, and shaggy dark brown curls cover his face.
“W-what?” I splutter. Why wouldn’t Felix mention that?
“We need your help to surprise him!” Mateo announces. “Can you skip the— —bakery— —and then— —decorate— —after show— —does that work?”
Wow. I’ve never heard Mateo talk so fast.
“I didn’t catch most of that,” I admit as we step into the lobby. “Can you text it to me?” I motion toward the phone in Mateo’s hand. He unlocks it and hands it to me. I make a contact for myself, open a new text string, and give it back. They wait by the elevators while I take Ginger outside.
By the time the text comes through, we’re heading back inside. I read the message as I walk, chuckling at the incredibly detailed plan for a surprise party. He even included a shopping list.
“Can you do it?” Mateo asks after Ginger and I rejoin them.
“Sure. But how am I supposed to get out of the concert tonight?”
“Say you’re on your period or something,” Calum suggests. “Lix can’t force you to come when your uterus is attacking.”
It’s not a bad excuse. What guy is going to pry into the details of a period? “Okay. I’ll get everything prepped tonight.”
“Yay! Thank you!” Mateo beams while holding his hand out to Calum. Calum looks at it for a second too long before confusedly taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. Mateo pulls his hand away and sighs. “Your credit card, Cal.”
“Oh,” he breathes, realization dawning. “That’s all I am to you? Your sugar daddy?” He gives me one of his many cards and tells me the pin is 1234. I try my best to not let judgment show on my face.
Since the businesses near our hotel are closed for the holiday, it takes Ginger and me an hour-long taxi ride to find an open party store. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the fare. Even though I’m using Calum’s card, fees with three numbers and no decimal point make me dizzy.
I head for the birthday aisle; Ginger trots beside me. Even here, most of the decorations are patriotic, which makes sense, it being the Fourth of July in Philadelphia—the birthplace of America.
While looking at some extremely nationalistic bald eagle and American flag confetti, Ginger’s wet nose squishes against my exposed thigh. I don’t ask her to show me what she hears, because I feel my phone buzzing. I wipe her snot off my leg and answer the video call.
Jo’s sitting on the floor of the office. She tilts her phone to show a stack of revamp supplies behind her. Paint, kids’ books, and an unassembled desk still in the box. “How did you get this many donations?!”
I tie Ginger’s leash around my waist so I can hold my phone and one-handedly sign. I carefully maneuver my cart with my torso, only occasionally bumping into things. “I’m worst-charming.” I wink.
“The donations are great, but they’re making Mom upset.”
“If she doesn’t like it, she can leave.”
“She also gets super upset if I mention you. And I catch her crying sometimes.”
“I don’t wan—”
“I know, you don’t want to discuss her!” she interrupts. “But have you talked with her? Even briefly?”
I shake my head. I’m not going to be the first one to break and message her. Even though I can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside her head. We’ve never gone this long without communication.
Jo sighs. “Maybe you should talk soon. I think you both hurt each other.”
I flash a disapproving frown in lieu of a response.
“Damn, don’t get mad! I’m done!” Jo urges. “How’s the tour?”
“The tour’s … fine. It’s F-E-L-I-X’s birthday. I’m buying party decorations and a cake.”
Her brows shoot into her hairline. “You planned a party for him?”
“No, M-A-T—”
“You like him! You DO care about hot boys!” Her jaw drops.
“No! I don’t!” I sign a little too defensively. “I’m not emotionally connected to him yet. He’s worst-annoying!”
“‘Yet’?” Jo waggles her brows.
I roll my eyes. “OK-OK, maybe … I don’t DISLIKE him but…” She quirks a brow. “I’m neutral. Stop meddling, and focus on preparing lessons and managing the Center!”
I mean, sure, there’s nothing wrong with being emotionally connected or mildly attracted to your friendly neighborhood pop star, but I couldn’t stand the humiliation, personally.
Not that I’m connected to or attracted to Felix Song! Just … you know, in general.
Smugness floods Jo’s face. “I have to go. I’m busy,” I rush, desperately wanting this conversation to end.
“Have fun!” she signs teasingly.
I hang up the call and pick out the most outrageously American party supplies the store has. Throwing an American pride–themed birthday party for a Kiwi is too good an opportunity to pass up.
I order a taxi to a nearby bakery while the cashier rings us up. Ginger scoots closer to my leg from where she’s sitting. I glance away from my screen and see an employee patting her head and making kissy faces.
“Please don’t pet her,” I say firmly. Not to the same level, but I’m starting to see crossover between owning a service dog and being famous.
Everywhere we go, people stare, take pictures, and invade our personal space.
The employee gives me a dirty look, like they have a right to be upset they can’t touch my medical equipment, and storms away.
Ginger and I get back to the hotel right as the concert starts, which gives me two and a half hours to set everything up. I load the decorations and cake onto a luggage cart and carefully navigate it into the elevator.
When we reach Felix’s room, I hesitate. I’m not technically breaking and entering since Calum scrounged up a key, but it feels like a violation of privacy.
I unlock the door. The party must go on, right?
Inside, the room is disheveled. Skin care products and vitamin bottles clutter the dresser.
His suitcase is open on the floor, and the clothes are haphazardly crumpled inside.
The only tidy thing is his go-to outfit, the striped sweater and black flowy pants, which are neatly folded on his unmade bed.
The room reminds me of the random mélange in his bottomless fanny pack.
Needing a place to put the cake, I tidy the dresser first. I notice three neon Post-it notes stuck to the mirror above the dresser. It takes me a second of staring at Felix’s chicken-scratch handwriting to recognize the words.
BUY MORE ZYRTEC FOR WILL!
AVES 1ST TENIS MATCH NEXT TUES— ASK HOW IT WENT!
“IF YOU CAN SEE IT IN YOUR DREAMS AND FEEL IT IN YOUR HART, YOU CAN brING IT INTO REALITY”
The notes spark curiosity, but I brush it off and continue the party prep. When I approach his bed, I see some glitter pens strewn around an open notebook. I pick up the book, and my eyes float over the mismatch of glittery rainbow scribbles.
UNTITLED
F.Song 27/06
(Verse 1) Born in a summer breeze, under skies brite and blue
I’d like to try me and you
Every glance, every smile, I’m falling deep
Her lessons hard to teach, her touch just out of reach
Does she even notice, does her hart skip a beat?
(Pre-corus) Does she feel the same or is it in my head?
Does she see a freind, a opportuneity, or something more insted?
(Corus) Silence & sound, the differnce in our lifes
Walking in the wind, tearing me apart, hidden in the shadow of my doubt The story of us waiting to be written
I slam the book shut the instant I realize what I’m reading.
This is Felix’s songwriting book.
His filled-with-intimate-thoughts-and-feelings-that-I-have-no- business-reading-about songwriting book.
I toss it aside and stand up, my heart beating a million miles per hour. From the floor, Ginger watches with an incredible amount of judgment. “I didn’t mean to snoop!” I exclaim. “It was lying there, completely open! He should’ve hidden it!”
She blinks at me.
My shoulders slump. “You’re right. He left it open in his room, which I should not be in without permission. I have no excuse.”
His lyrics ping-pong around my brain: Her lessons hard to teach …
Does she see a friend, an opportunity, or something more instead?
… The difference in our lives … The song isn’t about me, right?
That’s impossible! Or … maybe it’s not. A strange warmth unfurls within me, like his words are wrapping themselves around me, settling deep and steady.
Jesus. Pull yourself together, Natalie.
But the deep need to tell someone about this worms its way into my brain, and I decide I’ll send one text to Jo before pretending I never saw it. A happy medium.
Thurs, July 4, 7:44 PM
[Natalie]
I think Felix wrote a love song about me?? He’s horrible! I hate it here!
[Jo]
HELLO??????? ADJKADHJGK MARRY HIM!! SECURE THE BAG
[Natalie]
You’re the worst
[Jo]
so im hearing FELIX isnt the worst anymore?
[Natalie]
Bold statement from someone who can’t hear
[Jo]
ur ableism is sickening
I put my phone away with a sigh. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea.
I force myself to focus on putting everything on the bed in Felix’s suitcase, then I transform the sleek, expensive hotel room into a red, white, and blue birthday wonderland.
The real showstopper is the “Happy Independence Day!” banner I hung above the bed. Except I crossed out the word independence and wrote birth in its place. My finest work of art to date.
I check the time on my phone and see a text from Felix, from ten minutes ago.