“Ladies first,” he orders. I shrug at Molly, and she rolls her eyes before hoisting herself on board. I’m about to follow her when something stops me: a word stenciled in white along the boat’s starboard side. A word I can’t believe I didn’t notice until now. A word that assaults every nerve in my body:
NIGHTLIGHT
NIGHTLIGHT, Ricky’s Playbill message repeated.
NIGHTLIGHT. HELP CONNOR.
It was a warning. Mr. Hannigan knew these men were coming.
My fog is gone. I blink my eyes clear and bellow, “MOLLY, GET OFF THE BOAT! GET OFF THE BOAT RIGHT NOW!” She spins on the deck, her hair and dress flapping like a flag in the wind. “Get back!” I shriek at Briggs, shoving the muscular statue with the last drops of power in my terrier-sized body. He doesn’t budge. “MOLLY, THEY’RE NOT WHO THEY SAY THEY ARE!” Molly sprints back along the deck, but two of the men snatch her. She screams. Behind me, Briggs stands deathly still on the dock—a dock conveniently empty of all human beings except us—and his smiling eyes lock onto mine. “Who are you really?” I ask, close to hyperventilating.
Briggs digs into his pocket and removes the all-black Pez dispenser—his good luck charm—and touches it gently to my chest. I’m too curious to move. A smarter person would’ve moved. A crack of violet electricity punches my heart backward. As the force launches me off my feet, I slam against the dock, and once again, air vanishes from my lungs. Molly screams as I struggle to brush the dusting of stars from my vision.
Stay awake, Connor…Keep conscious…
Ben Briggs—my mother’s hired goon—kneels beside me and whispers, “All aboard.”
CHAPTER THREE
HELP CONNOR
TWO MONTHS AGO
Ario texts me at the worst possible times, I swear.
Mom and I are grabbing an early dinner at Sue’s Diner before her night shift, and the hour before she goes to work is stressful enough without all these buzzing notifications. When I sneak a quick peek, they’re exactly what I expect from my boyfriend: support. It’s actually something closer to aggressive, hostile support, but it’s hard to blame him. He’s just trying to help me come out. The sooner I come out to my mom, the better. This “before moment” is like edging, but for anxiety attacks.
Let me know as soon as you do it! he texts, followed by emojis of crossed fingers. I know it’s hard, he continues in rapid fire, but omg you’ll feel great on the other side! Here for you!
I’m amazed I’m even able to hold my phone with this cold sweat pumping through my hands. He’s right, I know I need to do this. Everybody who’s gay does it. Nothing can happen in my life until I do it. I just, obviously, can’t do it ten minutes before my mom has to go to work to nurse preemie babies for twelve hours. It’s not fair to her, and it won’t look good on me. Next week is finals, and I don’t want this hanging over my head if it goes wrong. The week after that is my birthday, and I don’t want that getting ruined either. So, it has to happen sometime after my birthday, and honestly, I never promised Ario I was having The Conversation today, so I don’t know what these texts are supposed to be—a nudge? A mind game?