“Your door’s open.”

“Forget the door—”

I can’t lose my head. Terror strikes my chest like a musical chord on a horror movie soundtrack and—for the second time today—I push Ario back. A tiny push, but that’s all he needs to be done with me. In an agitated fit, he scrambles to the opposite end of his bed. We’re only a foot apart, but it might as well be a football stadium. “So, what do you want to do instead?” Ario asks with a sigh that murders me.

But this is what I want to do. I just want to go slower. And if he keeps tempting me, I’m in danger of missing my delivery to Mr. Hannigan, getting fired, and then that’ll be it for me and Ario. We only have a few months left before he moves to UIC, and the city is at least a two-hour drive away. There’ll be plenty of boys there who would never reject the moves of a deadass fox like Ario. Boys who understand what he’s talking about when he rants about politics. Boys who don’t have to worry about what their Goddamn mothers think.

I can’t lose any more time with him. I have to go for it.

Ario’s box spring whines as I scoot closer in tiny hops. He remains rigid and motionless, even as I stroke the bits of fur peeking out from his sherbet-yellow tank top. He doesn’t pull back, but he doesn’t slide closer either. My unwelcome fingers—with their boring, alcohol-washed nails no longer electric purple—find the pendant slung around his neck, a bamboo recorder the size of a large Chapstick. My boyfriend avoids eye contact as he plucks the rainbow beads on his bracelet, his nails shimmering silver. We used to be silver and purple, but now we’re just silver and nothing.

Please. Please don’t ignore me.

“Connor—” cuts a voice from outside. With the speed of Olympic bobsledders, Ario and I drag pillows over our erect laps as a girl marches into the room. It’s Ario’s sister, but not the little one from downstairs; this one’s older, about twelve, round faced with equally round glasses. “Gimme ten dollars,” she orders.

“Hey, shitty,” Ario snarls, “make some noise before you come in my room.”

His sister rolls her eyes (a Navissi family trait) and shows off a sparkly, violet-cased phone. “You need to give me ten dollars to save this guy.”

“Trini, no one’s paying you—”

“Who are we saving?” I ask, taking Trini’s phone, desperate for the interruption. I had no idea how much I missed the gentle weight of a phone in my hand. A fashion ad fills Trini’s phone display; in the ad, a bare-chested god with blond surfer hair straddles a farmhouse fence. I scroll further. It’s not an ad; it’s a GoFundMe. A banner headline reads: MISSING MODEL.

“Drew Schreiber?” I read from the caption.

“He’s a Calvin Klein model,” Trini explains. “At least he was. His aunt says his parents had him taken away. Some place where they do mind games to make you straight. Ten dollars goes to help finding him and you get on the aunt’s email list. If you gimme the cash, I can set it up for you.” Normally, I’d hold on to ten dollars like a life raft, but a chill sneaks up my sternum thinking about Drew, the Missing Model. His parents dragged him off to some awful place and ruined his career—a career at Calvin Klein! I dig two fives from my wallet and hand them to Trini before Ario can complain.