I want to scream that she’s D-E-L-U-D-E-D and Derrick deserves everything that’s coming to him, but it wouldn’t reach her. All it would do is alienate me from my only ally in Ambrose. I’m the only one Vicky trusted with the truth. Unfortunately for me, I was dating Vicky when she got pregnant, so the longer this mystery goes on, the more I look like the Big Gay Deadbeat.

Me: Maybe everything would be easier if we got back together. People would leave me alone, and you’d have help…

Vicky: lol what about Ario?

Me: Well, you’d just have to be cool with me seeing guys on the side lol

After an eternity of Vicky typing, her response is simply haha. I shouldn’t joke (maybe only half-joke). Vicky, like me, is up to her neck in shit, and if I offered to be Avery’s unofficial father, she’d say “I do” just for the extra naptime.

Vicky: I gotta go, but I love you. Text whenever.

I switch back to Ario, who as it turns out had been texting me the whole time I was talking to Vicky, but my asshole phone never buzzed. He sent a GIF he made of himself—doe-eyed, with curly black hair, making a heart shape with his fingers.

Me: Do you think I could stay at your place for a couple nights? I’m kinda nervous here.

When he doesn’t respond, I notice that I missed his last message following the GIF: brb I’m heading out—promised my sis I’d drive her and her demon friends to the county fair. Blerg, it’s like an hour away. Text me later, okay?? Hang in there!

GOD DAMMIT.

I missed my window to text Ario my most important ask. The tops of my ears burn. I flip my phone facedown and stroke the pendant lying across my bare chest. It’s a recorder the size of a finger, handcrafted from bamboo; gripping it always brings me closer to Ario. I need him to text back or I have literally nowhere to go. I can’t burden Vicky with this. She’s got enough on her plate, plus me shacking up with Vicky would cancel whatever remaining doubts Mom might have about us.

Meanwhile, Ricky Hannigan’s envelope sits on top of my swirly, untucked covers, almost forgotten. Mr. Hannigan, that sweet, sunken-eyed man, left me a present in his will. I undo the envelope’s brass clip; inside is a folded booklet. No money. I’m not sure what I expected; the envelope was way too light. I recognize the booklet’s bright yellow cover immediately—a Broadway Playbill. Ricky’s room was covered in them. Old ones, mostly—Chicago, Dreamgirls, Sweeney Todd, A Little Night Music, Into the Woods—all from a time when Ricky was still able to go out. This Playbill is for South Pacific. On its vibrant, chalk-drawing cover, sailors dance around a tropical island. Ricky was always playing showtunes when I walked in, but I don’t remember this one. I flip open the booklet’s cover to a rude sight: the pages have been vandalized with black Sharpie in large, scrawling letters, so uneven they don’t even resemble words at first.