Chapter Twenty-Four. Under the Spotlight
Chapter Twenty-Four
Under the Spotlight
“How was the concert?” I ask after the Detroit show.
Felix’s eyes sparkle mischievously as he pulls a blue Post-it note out of his pocket. I instinctively dodge when he tries to stick it to my forehead, but he adheres it to my cheek instead.
MEET ME IN THE HALL AT MIDNITE
I HAVE A SUPRISE!
XX
I only mildly panic as Felix ties a blindfold on me. Not being able to see anything is freaking me out more than I expected.
“Is it too tight?” His tone is laced with concern. I automatically turn my head toward the sound of his voice. It takes me a second to realize I can’t lipread right now and have to depend on my unreliable hearing.
“No, it’s fine—AAH!” I yelp when the Uber brakes abruptly. Felix’s large, strong hand grips right above my knee. I snatch it.
Never mind. I am definitely panicking.
“I hate this!” I squeak out.
“You can take it off; it’s alright,” he soothes.
“No … I think I’m okay now,” I murmur, tightening my grip on his hand. “I agreed to the blindfold.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to continue agreeing. That’s kinda how consent works, Nat.”
“I’m fine,” I decide. “But … don’t let go, okay?”
He squeezes my hand in lieu of a response.
When the car parks, Felix guides me out, slinks one arm around my waist, and carefully leads me into a building. A heavy door clangs behind us, and we walk up a set of stairs.
It’s unnerving to be blindfolded and led to some mystery location in the dead of night, but something about how Felix’s hand rests on my hip and my body is tucked against his is calming.
We go through another set of doors, walk straight, and go up a few more steps. Where are we?
My question is answered when he releases me and unties my blindfold. I blink a few times while adjusting to having sight again.
We’re standing in the center of a stage; a bright spotlight shines down on us. On the ground on either side of the T-shaped stage that extends into a cavernous room there are small bits of confetti and DAYDREAM concert ticket stubs.
I do a slow turn to take it in but freeze when I notice a checkered blanket spread behind us.
There’s a picnic basket; a fancy charcuterie board with cheeses, meats, and crackers; an ice bucket with sparkling apple juice; and in the center, a vase of flowers.
Small, battery-powered candles surround the onstage picnic.
“Surprise!” he announces. The sound echoes, ricocheting off the walls of what I now recognize as the arena where DAYDREAM performed.
Then he tracks my line of sight to the candles and cringes.
“Oh, er … I asked Bhavani for help setting this up and mentioned candles, as in, like, birthday candles … But I guess they misunderstood.”
I snort. I highly doubt Bhavani misunderstood.
He sits and motions across from him, and I join him. He starts pouring sparkling juice into champagne flutes. “Happy birthday! Your birthday is tomorrow—er, technically today, yeah?”
My stomach drops. I never told him that. I didn’t want to tell him.
“H-how did you know?”
“Aves told me. Jo mentioned it at their last lesson, and I wanted to do something special, like you did on my birthday. I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he apologizes.
I stare out at the vast emptiness of the theater and bite my lip, willing myself not to cry. It doesn’t work, though, because Felix sets aside the drinks, his focus shifting between my misty eyes and wobbly chin.
“You didn’t.” I take a deep breath. “But … well, I haven’t really celebrated since…”
“Your dad,” he finishes my sentence. “Your guys’ doughnut tradition, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say on an exhale. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining your surprise.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re not ruining anything.” His hand finds mine. “What can I do to help?”
Nothing, I think. Because in these moments, when old wounds are split open and grief flows like fresh blood, the only thing that can help is the one thing I can’t have: my dad.
Finally, a tear slips down my cheek, and Felix wraps both arms around me, encasing me in warmth and comfort, and it all comes spilling out.
He rocks me and rakes fingers through my hair as I cry. His calm breathing and the pressure of his embrace ease the heartache threatening to consume me.
When I pull away, the fabric of his hoodie is wet with a mixture of tears and snot.
He grabs a few napkins and hands them to me. I dry my eyes, loudly blow my nose, and awkwardly clean his hoodie. Not my sexiest moment.
The impromptu emotional breakdown was pretty cathartic, though. I’ve spent so long running away from my grief, instead of letting myself feel it, I never realized how healing it can be to cry. Maybe the good and the bad can co-exist.
“Can we press the reset button?” I ask. “I’d like to try this again.”
Felix hops to his feet. He walks backward down the steps leading to the stage, then immediately walks back up. He looks out into the darkness, spreads his arms to either side, and calls out, “Surprise! Blame the candles on Bhavani.”
I burst into laughter when I realize he’s literally replaying the grand introduction he did.
When he sits down again, he hands me a flute of sparkling juice and quirks his head. “What’s so funny?” he asks, pretending he doesn’t recall cradling me while I cried.
“Nothing.” I smile. “I appreciate you.”
He raises his glass. “To fresh starts, friendship, and your nineteenth year being the best one yet!” I clink my glass against his and take a sip of the now-lukewarm juice. As we drink, demolish the charcuterie board, and share childhood stories, the theater fills with laughter.
While he yammers about his kindergarten boyfriend, he grabs a loaf of gluten-free bread, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!
, and a jar of round sprinkles from the basket.
“Y’know, we never technically broke up …
So does that count as my longest relationship?
” he asks while covering a slice of buttered bread in sprinkles. He hands it to me.
Too preoccupied by the sprinkle-butter-bread, I don’t answer his question. I hesitantly take it and crinkle my nose.
“It’s fairy bread,” he explains. “A New Zealand birthday tradition.”
“I’m sorry, what?! You can’t have cupcakes or something?”
“Oh, don’t whinge. Try it!”
Every time I think I’ve gotten used to his Kiwiness, he somehow baffles me.
I take a small bite. I can’t say it’ll become a new staple, but it’s better than I thought.
Our conversation slowly becomes one-sided as Felix drones on about Kiwi traditions and … okay, I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m not paying attention to his words. My focus is on the boy himself.
His crispy, overbleached hair is pulled into a half-up bun, and his chin bears a faint trace of patchy stubble; dark circles adorn his undereye area, and stress acne is lightly scattered around his cheeks.
He’s onstage, quite literally under the spotlight, but he isn’t acting. The charismatic, perfect lead singer isn’t here; this boy isn’t the star who fakes smiles on the red carpet and always worries about his image.
There’s no glitz and glam, no smoke screen, no douchey manager with a terrible quiff yelling at him.
There’s only Felix.
Felix whose heart is ten times the size of his bank account. Felix who holds me while I cry. Felix who buys Ginger dog food and me gluten-free snacks. Felix who cheats at card games. Felix who listens and learns and tries to do better. Felix who has an entire solar system in his inky eyes.
Felix from Seattle.
“… Mum still won’t tell me, though, so it—Nat?” Felix waves his hand in front of my face, and I snap back to reality. He quirks a brow. “You alright?”
The realization that I’ve been continuously misjudging him crashes into me like a wave, leaving my mind reeling, and all I can do is stare. A long moment of unwavering, hypnotic eye contact passes between us. My heart races, my breath catching in my lungs.
I try to organize my thoughts, but the longer I focus on Felix, the more jumbled they become. After a few more minutes, my brain fully stops computing and I inelegantly blurt, “You like me, right?”
Flabbergasted, he sprays the juice he was drinking all over me. I recoil, liquid dripping down my face.
“What the hell!”
“I’m so sorry!” he rushes, shoving a handful of napkins toward me. “It’s not like I was expecting you to ask that! Er … and why are you asking that, exactly?”
“Remember when I said we have to keep things professional and friendzoned you?” I sigh and dab my face dry.
“Um. Well, funny story! I really like you, and I tried gaslighting myself into not liking you, but it’s only made me like you more.
Because you’re lovely. And thoughtful, and a million other things, so unless I’m full of myself and super presumptuous, I think you like me in a more-than-a-strictly-business way, too, but—”
“Nat,” he interrupts with a breathy laugh. “Jesus Christ, I like you in such an unprofessional way. Like, a ‘someone get HR involved’ way. I’ve never, not even once, liked you in a business way.”
“W-why? I mean, I’ve sort of been an asshole to you.”
“Yeah, you miiight wanna work on that—ow!” He winces when I slap his shoulder.
“Kidding! You laugh with—and sometimes at—me, you accommodate me, and you make me wanna be a better person. You’re wicked smart, and you’ve shown me new sides of myself and the world.
I can trust you with anything. You’re gonna change the world, Nat.
” He pauses, then, with a signature smirk, adds, “And you’re really hot, too. But that’s mostly a bonus.”
“Felix…” I breathe.
Slowly, his lips tip into a half smile. “Nat?”
I open my mouth, but no words come. I can’t drown out the part of me that wants to abandon all logic, ignore all the risks, and kiss Felix Song.
I just really, really, really want to kiss Felix Song.
So I do.
He flinches as I press my lips against his, and it briefly sparks doubt in me, but he snakes an arm around my waist and hauls me closer.
When our mouths reconnect, the kiss deepens with an urgency that steals my breath.
His lips are soft but insistent as his tongue sweeps against mine, sending a shiver down my spine.
I tangle my hands in his hair, and he responds with a low, guttural sound that sets my nerve endings alight.
His hands slip lower, fingers brushing against the curve of my waist, and my skin tingles wherever he touches.
Eventually, he breaks away. He lays me back carefully, a hand behind my head to protect it from the hard stage. His weight presses against me, and I gasp softly. Heat pools low in my gut when his lips graze my neck.
His mouth is hot against my skin as he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone. Each one is unhurried yet hungry, his lips and tongue tracing paths that make me ache.
Every minute our lips are connected, I’m reminded of how I could’ve had this all along if I hadn’t been so goddamn stubborn. Not only the making out (however, that is a fantastic addition) but him. Us.
These sparks could’ve been flying since his birthday. Maybe even longer. But I chose to keep denying my developing feelings. I believed the convoluted conclusions my silly meatloaf brain jumped to, and I forced myself to ignore what my heart was telling me.
I slip my free hand under his hoodie and run my fingers along his knobby spine and relish the way his back subtly arches into my touch.
He eventually pulls away, places a featherlight kiss on my cheek, and draws me into a sitting position; our heavy breathing syncs up, and I imagine our flushed faces and tousled hair match, too.
Felix tenderly tucks hair behind my ear. “You’ve had an, er, emotional night. I wanna make sure you aren’t rushing this because there’s a lot on your mind,” he murmurs, using messy SimCom.
A deep ache still flows through me, but I consider his point and nod. My heart rate slowly returns to normal, my mind less clouded now that the heat of the moment has passed.
“It’s late,” he says. “How about we talk about this, us, later? That way we can approach it more … articulately.”
The thought of talking about us—and the fact that there is an “us” now—freaks me out enough that I want to start drafting a list of talking points, but I take a deep breath and force the logical side of myself to shut up.
I shouldn’t be freaked out by the existence of us.
This is a good thing. We’re a good thing.
“Sure,” I agree.
After we pack up the picnic, he stands, tidies his hair, and pulls me to my feet. He heads for the staircase leading offstage, but I stop him. “Felix?”
He turns, bottomless eyes shining under the spotlight.
I push onto my tiptoes and sling my arms around his neck. For the second time tonight, I press my lips to his. Unlike the first kiss, this one is slower, methodical, and drags on until my toes grow tired of supporting my weight.
“Thank you for everything,” I whisper against his lips, too quietly for myself to hear.