“Hey,” Erik says again. His hand reaches out to touch me. Hovers above my knee. Then he seems to think better of it and pulls it back, which makes me want to cry. I ruined this. I ruined it. “It’s okay, Sadie.”

“No. No, it’s not. I . . . I think the problem is that I have only ever done this with my ex, and I . . .”

“I see.” His face turns stony in an impersonal, scary way. “Did he hurt you?”

“No! No, Oscar would never. It was good. It’s just he was . . . different. From you.” I laugh nervously. I hope I don’t burst into tears. “Not that it’s bad. I mean, everybody’s different. It’s just that . . .”

He nods, and I think he gets it, because his expression clears up. Which in turn helps me feel a little less anxious. Like I don’t need to be huddled away from him as though he’s a contagious rabid animal. I take a deep breath and scoot up closer, toward the center of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why are you sorry?” He seems genuinely puzzled.

“I just didn’t think this would feel . . . scary. I figured I’d be way cooler. Smoother, I guess.”

“Sadie, you . . .” He exhales and reaches for me again. This time he doesn’t stop and pushes back my hair, tucking it behind my ear like he wants to see my face in full. Like he wants me to see him. “You don’t have to be any way. I didn’t bring you here so you could perform for me.”

I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Right. You brought me here because I propositioned you, and then—”

“I brought you here because I wanted to be with you. I’d have kept on walking around the city till dawn if that was what you wanted. So, here’s the deal: we can spend the night fucking, and I won’t lie, I’d greatly enjoy that, but we could also play Guess Who?, or you could help me give my brother’s cat his flea medication, since it’s a two-, maybe three-person job. Any of the above works.”

I really, really don’t want to tear up. Instead I let myself fall back onto the bed, my head on his one pillow. “What if I wanted to play the FIFA video game?”

“I would ask you to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not own any gaming console.”

I laugh, a little watery. “I knew you were too good to be true.”

“I used to have a Game Boy in the ’90s,” he offers. “Maybe my dad kept it.”

“Partial redemption.” We’re both smiling now, and my fear of him liquefies, like snow in the sun. Only to ice all over again in another form: fear of not having him. “Did I fuck this up?”

“Fuck what up?”

I gesticulate in his direction, then in mine. Us, I want to say, but it seems premature. “This . . . this thing.”