Chapter Thirty-Two. Not in a Sexy Way
Chapter Thirty-Two
Not in a Sexy Way
Outside SeaTac Airport that evening, late July humidity clings to my skin. I carefully scan the pickup zone until I spot Jo sitting on the hood of my ancient TOYOTA Corolla. Ginger and I dart over to her.
She jumps down, and her expression morphs into abject horror. “You look terrible!” She drags her thumb under my puffy eyes, scrubbing away smudged mascara. Even the best waterproof mascara is no match for post-breakup tears.
“I’ll kill him!” she signs angrily. “Nobody hurts my sister!”
“You saw the picture? I kissed him first. It’s my fault,” I sign lifelessly.
“Everyone’s seen the picture,” she replies.
Of course they have. Why wouldn’t the whole world be gossiping about Felix Song’s mystery lover?
It’s such a tantalizing story—forget how the brutal online name-calling and demoralizing headlines will affect anyone involved!
Who cares about people’s emotions when there’s a chance to exploit them for profit?
It’s only when she starts massaging one of my shoulders that I realize how tense I am. “I’m really sorry.” She gives me a hug, then loads my suitcase and backpack into the trunk while I strap Ginger into her doggy seat belt.
Arriving home is bittersweet. The chipped white paint and key lime–green front door of our Ballard home only emphasizes the painful realization that I’m really here. Back in Washington, 1,330 miles away from Felix.
Jo gets out, unbuckles Ginger, grabs my bags, and heads for the door. Ginger bounces around the overgrown front yard like a lamb, ecstatic to be home. I peel myself out of the car, and Ginger follows as I walk inside.
From the doorway, I catch a glimpse of my mom’s graying pixie cut, her glasses perched on her sharp nose while she reads in the living room. She glances up from the novel; her brows curve downward, and her lips press into a line.
I can’t deal with her right now.
Breaking eye contact, I snatch my bags from Jo, dash into my room, and slam the door.
Then, like a raccoon with delicious trash, I drop to the floor and furiously dig through my backpack and suitcase, tossing flannels, underwear, and dog toys aside, until I uncover the oversized, purple-and-white-striped sweater I flagrantly stole; the Felix-branded pink blanket; the charcoal drawing of him canoeing; and the collection of sticky notes.
Each note is salt in the wound, and a fresh round of tears threatens my eyes.
His awful jokes and sweet messages are an agonizing reminder of all I left behind.
Tears run down my cheeks as I drape the blanket over my lap and hug the sweater and inhale deeply, breathing in Felix’s god-awful cologne.
With my eyes closed, it’s almost like he’s here.
Strong arms wrapped around me, fingers grazing through my hair.
I’m startled when a hand touches my shoulder. I rip my face out of the sweater and see Mom leaning over me. My muscles instinctively tighten, and I shy away from her touch. She lowers herself to the ground, across from me.
Her steel-gray eyes study me before she delicately wipes one of my tears; I freeze, stunned by the intimacy. The last time she was this gentle with me was when Dad was diagnosed. For a second, I’m a child again, desperate for comfort from a mother who rarely gave it.
“I … tried my best to raise you girls after your dad died, but I made mistakes. I tried to protect you, but I hurt you instead.” She hesitates, as if deciding whether to add the next part. “I don’t always agree with you, but I admire you. I love you.”
The world tilts on its axis. This isn’t the mom I’ve had all my life, a constant critic who meets vulnerability with walls of ice. My mother doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t admit fault. But here she is, offering something foreign and fragile.
My heart unexpectedly aches as I attempt to reconcile the woman in front of me with the one I’ve known. This is the closest she’s ever come to being the mother I’ve longed for. And for once, I let myself lean into it. Just for a moment.
Because—as recently evidenced by me completely misjudging Felix—I realize maybe I’ve been wrong about her, too. Maybe I’ve been so focused on what she’s failed to give me, I haven’t seen what she’s been trying to offer in her own, flawed way.
“I love you, too.” I sniffle.
“I’m sorry about you two. Do you want to talk?”
I’m not surprised she knows about us. Either Jo blabbed or Mom saw the news articles and drew assumptions.
“No.” I’ve had too much for one day.
Mom tucks faded pink hair behind my ears. “OK. Leftovers are in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
I lower a hand from my chin, and she disappears into the hall.
When the morning sun peeks through my window, I stretch out on my floor and stare at Felix’s sweater in my grasp.
I justified stealing it because I needed something to prove everything was real and I wasn’t having some elaborate coma dream.
But in the spirit of moving on, I fold it and stow it—along with his other things—on the top shelf of my closet, behind a box of Dad’s things. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Then I grab my phone and pace, trying to convince myself to turn it on.
I powered it off yesterday. I couldn’t bear to witness his live reaction to my departure.
My flight touched down right as DAYDREAM’s concert ended, and by the time we got home, he must’ve returned to the hotel and read my letter.
Taking the plunge, I power it on, and notifications instantly obscure the picture of Felix set as my lockscreen. They stack on top of one another in an endless stream. When the surge stops, I have 129 unread texts, 22 missed video calls, and 77 Google Alerts.
Opening the Messages app would be a lose-lose.
If I don’t open it, not knowing what he said will eat away at me.
But if I read his messages, I’ll be tempted to reply, and that’s something I absolutely cannot do.
No matter how much it feels like ripping my heart out, I need to maintain this distance. I can’t rob him of his dream.
I take a forceful inhale, and on the exhale, I launch the app.
Mon, July 29, 8:43 PM
[Pretty Boy ]
Nat don’t go!! Where are u rn?? I’ll come get u second, Mateo making a goofy face while Bhavani does his makeup; third, a short clip of Lachlan doing an onstage mic check; last, a video of all of them in their subtle-but-flashy, boyish-yet-sexy stage outfits as they perform.
A hairline fracture threatens to split the two pieces of my heart into three. In every clip or picture with Felix, he looks like a vampire. And not in a sexy way. He’s paler, with bloodshot eyes and lifeless expressions. He looks sick of being tried in the court of public opinion.
It takes me a dozen tries to swallow the lump in my throat. I close out of Instagram and doomscroll on other apps. My pulse quickens when I discover #FelixSong and #DAYDREAM are trending at number one and two.
I click the first hashtag, and my feed is flooded with posts from worried fans and tabloids sharing links to the newest articles they’ve written.
Posts discussing the picture of us are interspersed, and I nearly heave at what more zealous “fans” are saying. Everything from insults to slut shaming, all the way to attempted doxing and graphic death threats.
The vitriolic hate is seared into my mind, even as I click out of #FelixSong and into #DAYDREAM.
My disgust (and fear) is slowly joined by concern for Felix as I read posts from different fans.
Some share their own vampiresque pictures and videos of him; others discuss their concern for his mental health or DAYDREAM’s lackluster performances.
Apparently, in Austin he sang off-key; during their Phoenix show, he zoned out the whole time and missed cues; and tonight he teared up while singing “Lovely Girl.”
Tears cloud my vision as I close the app and click Mateo’s contact.
I video call him, but it goes unanswered.
I try Calum next, since there’s no way in hell I’m calling Lachlan, and Will is more likely to give me shit than Calum.
Silently praying he’ll be in his typical chill Bro-Dude headspace, I press the Call button and sit up.
Anxiety builds as it rings, but finally, his face appears. His unicorn horn hair, lack of shirt, and big brown eyes would probably bring me comfort if he didn’t have a cutting scowl.
“So your phone does work,” he bites. “We texted you a bajillion times. You could’ve let us know you were safe. It’s been two weeks! What the hell, bro?”
Ouch. I exhale sharply as his iciness hits me.
I repeatedly open and close my mouth, searching for a reply. Why did I call? What was I going to say? I can’t remember anything now.
“I’m really worried about Felix,” I squeak out.
“Join the club.”
“I just want to make sure he’s okay. Or that he will be okay. I’ve seen stuff online, and I’m concerned.”
“If you— —worried, talk to— —yourself.” His speech cuts out, but I understand the gist.
“Leaving was the best thing I could do, Cal, for the band and for Felix. I have to stay away, or it’ll ruin your careers!”
He scoffs. “He’s miserable! He’s ruining his career anyway.
” His eyes bore into me, harsher and darker than ever.
“You dumping him like that, giving him the silent treatment … it broke him. None of us know how to help him, and it’s made— —rest of the tour pretty shitty.
Andrew’s threatening— —anyway. Don’t be delusional, this isn’t ‘best for the band.’”