We both cry out at the sense of completion before we’ve even begun to move. And then we do. I may be the defiant one, but Jack is incapable of passivity. He is over me, under me, behind me, driving me higher, as I do him. I’m not sure when I lose control of the situation—whether it is with the first orgasm or the second. But, somewhere along the way, my defiance burns up, leaving only desperate desire in its place. And then, after a final, screaming climax, it, too, is spent.

Panting, we collapse on the sheets and lie side by side on our backs with our fingers laced between us. As reality returns, I grow aware of the warmth of the room, the scent of sweat and sex, the richness of the afternoon light that slips through a gap in the drapes.

“This was for all the times we didn’t dare come here when we were kids,” I say but in a whisper that is more nostalgic than rebellious.

“This wasn’t about that, and you know it.”

Yes. I do know it. It was about defying my present-day life by focusing in on the one thing that has always rung true. Rolling onto him, I settle my legs between his. He is flaccid at last, and though I know that his ability to rebound is epic, I can’t resist this last press, body to body. I chafe his scruffy jaw with my knuckles. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says with a smug look on his handsome, flushed face.

“Do you feel used?” I ask.

“I feel loved.”

“But I used you.”

His eyes sharpen, and smugness is gone. “We use the people we love, like when we’re hurting and angry and there’s no one else we can sound off to. And if we’re too young to realize why we’re doing what we are and too dumb to understand the consequences and too stubborn to apologize, we end up not talking for twenty years, and during that time, that whole time, we’re alone.”

I swallow. He’s right about this, too. But the direction in which the conversation is headed isn’t one I’m able to face in the midst of the rest. So, I close his lips with my hand and whisper, “Not yet, Jack.” The red readout of the nightstand digital says it is two. “My hour is up.”

“Take another.”

“I can’t. There’s too much … too much…” My voice wobbles. I take a deep breath to steady it, but the breath wobbles, too. There’s too much with Paul, with Chrissie, with my father and my sisters, and, yes, with Jack. That quickly it all rushes back, like an eavesdropper tumbling through a door that has unexpectedly opened.

Jack’s face blurs, and, to my horror, I roll away to cry.