What do I need ten bucks for, anyway, when I’m stuck in my bedroom prison?

“Thanks for the breaking bad gay news, Trini,” Ario says, “but Connor doesn’t need to hear this right now, as well you know.” He nabs her phone out of my hand and chucks it back. “You shouldn’t be on queer sites, anyway. There’s naked guys.”

“Shirtless only,” Trini groans, disappearing into the hallway with my cash. “Should I stay away from the underwear aisle at Target, too, or will that destroy meeeeeeee?”

Our laughter slices through the painful quiet. Ario’s giggle is high and girlish—I want to jar up his honey-sweet laugh and spread it on toast. He squeezes my hand and I squeeze back, allowing a clean breath of relief into my lungs. He doesn’t hate me.

“It’s my fault,” Ario whispers.

“What?”

“I promised you it’d be okay if you came out.”

Ario is lucky his hand is so warm and calming. Because I’d never say it out loud, but it is his fault. And he did more than promise it would be fine; he made not coming out a dealbreaker for dating him. I tried to tell him that my mom is not his mom, but he wouldn’t listen.

“Hey…” I pull his hand to my lips. “I’m really okay.”

Ario doesn’t smile; I can’t sneak a lie past him. He rubs the back of my head in wide circles, softening the knotted pain in my neck. Finally, his touch feels the way it should feel—soothing. “I know it’s hard to be stuck at home.”

Damn it—tears. They drop hot and fast into my lap.

“I’m not allowed to talk about you.” My voice comes out shaky and small, and I detest the sound of it. “I miss you so much…I don’t want to go back there…” I kiss Ario’s forehead, his ear, his dimples. A sudden, reckless urge to beg him to never leave me takes over. “I’m sorry I pulled away before. I want to have…sex with you, but I just can’t right now.” Ario shushes my crying and rests his curly head on my chest, which finally slows my panicked breathing. He’s so beautiful. And I feel so crazy. This place—with Ario—has to be real. The place that’s fake and wrong is waiting at home in Ambrose.

Anger. Silence. That’s the fantasy bubble, not this.

Ario slides off his bamboo recorder pendant and drapes it over my head. The recorder has three note holes and actually plays. He fashioned it into a pendant after he got tired of it suffocating inside a shoebox. Ario’s dad made it for his tenth birthday—two birthdays before he died. “A present to say ‘sorry’ for ruining your life,” he says.

“I can’t take your recorder.”

“You have to.” Ario kisses the scruff littering my cheek. “A little piece of me in case you get lonely.”

“This was your dad’s…” But he insists. I slip the recorder inside the neck of my hoodie, and the shellacked bamboo immediately cools my chest. He kisses me again. I want another minute with Ario, but Mr. Hannigan’s dinner is waiting.