But that’s all over.

“I remember Mr. Hannigan,” I say, shaking my head out of a stupor.

“Well, he died.”

“I know he died. Hi, that’s why I haven’t been going on deliveries. You think I want to hang out here all day, getting under your skin?”

“Anyway, it looks like he left you something in his will.” Mom taps the bulging envelope again. “Isn’t that kind? The Reverend brought it by. He wanted to give it to you himself, but you were busy in the shower for a long time.”

My cheeks burst into flames that my mom would inform the frigging Reverend about how long I’d been in the shower. So what if I was in there for a while, imagining Ario next to me, our bodies pressed tightly in the rushing water? I have no phone, no friends, and nothing to do all day but look forward to a pathetic shower wank—dreaming of Ario’s perfectly furry chest…his curly hair…his feet up in the air…

“Thanks,” I say, plopping the envelope beside the sweating ice cream carton. Ricky’s package is feather light—is it cash? A check? Rare stamps? Ricky Hannigan lived in a shitbox home and every spare cent went to his medical care, so I shouldn’t get too excited. Still…he didn’t have to leave me anything. I’m kind of embarrassed he did; I barely knew him.

“You’re not gonna open it?”

“I’ll wait ’til I’m alone.” I turn to her, hands folded, and don’t dare to blink. She’s not getting one iota of whatever is in here. It’s all going toward Connor Major’s New Phone Piss-Off Fund. “Mr. Hannigan was a nice guy, but he was private. He wouldn’t want me opening this in front of anybody.”

That’s a lie. Ricky Hannigan was best friends with anyone who walked in his door. A few weeks before my junior year ended (and I unwisely came out), Mom arranged with the Reverend to get me into the Meals on Wheels program, so I’d waste my summer doing Christian things for Christian people. Most of my customers were cranky old dickheads, but not Ricky. He always smiled when he saw me.

I don’t get smiled at a lot.

Ricky wasn’t any older than the Reverend, but he needed meals delivered because he’d been in an accident forever ago. He could barely talk, so I never pried much about his injury. Then last weekend, I showed up at Ricky’s house with his usual tray, but his hospital bed was empty. He was gone. After that, the Reverend stopped my deliveries altogether, as if Ricky had been the only customer who mattered.

Outside our window, the black van cruises by for a fourth round. This time, Mom and I both spot it. Startled, her hand jumps, her fork and plate clattering, and the sudden noise stops my heart. Clearly, I inherited the panic gene from her, so thanks a bunch, Marcia. When she finishes blotting the gravy stain out of our plastic tablecloth, Mom pulls back a curtain of dark hair and announces, “Connor, your punishment’s over.”