Becky and I huddle around the speakerphone in Maurice’s home office. Honey, call your friend, he’s always telling me, Life is too short to worry about international phone rates. I try not to take advantage, but Becky comes over so we can talk to James when we can arrange a time.

Once Becky’s recounted stories of her newspaper editorship (“Seriously, supervising sophomores is like the hardest thing ever.”) and James has caught us up on London theater life (“If I have to hear about the rain in bloody Spain one more time…”), it’s my turn.

So, Ms. Davis gave me the name of the talent rep at a new coffeehouse in the Village, I tell them, and I think I’m going to call.

Next to me, Becky squeals and grabs my arm. Why didn’t you tell me? she asks.

He’s telling you now, kitten. Lord, at least you’ll be able to go watch and report back. But seriously, Michael. Do it. We need art to get us through this.

Because it’s James, I call and sign up for a slot.

Then, there’s one more call I make.

Connor said he heard Gay Men’s Health Crisis was looking for volunteers.

I’m going to be stuffing envelopes twice a week after school.

It doesn’t feel like a lot, but it’s a start.

It’s strange to have a spot in a showcase planned. An instrument to tune. Songs to write. Music to share.

And so I hop the D train, relish the smell of incense and pot in Washington Square, and find a spot near the arch, but not too close to where the break-dancers are working the crowd and passing the hat.

I lose myself in sound, the feel of my fingers on the strings, the light breeze. I close my eyes and let the world dissolve.

Until.

A feeling on the back of my neck, a racing of my heart that I barely remember.

I look up, and it’s Gabriel’s eyes that catch me. It was always his eyes.

My fingers stumble on the strings. I restart the measure. Stop. Force myself to laugh. Breathe. Hold myself back from running to Gabriel and throwing my arms around him.

I slow down. Bite my lip. Surrender. Pack away my guitar, my capos, my strap. Drawing out this moment of possibility.

My pulse betrays me by racing like that old wooden coaster at Coney Island, loud and out of control, surging forward at breakneck speed. I’m made of adrenaline.

I glance up, hesitant. Scared as hell. Filled with hope.

Gabriel is still there.

The other people drift away as I pack up. But he stands there, the smallest hint of a hopeful smile on his face.

He lifts his arms and goes into an easy cartwheel like the ones he did here for me before. Then he holds out his hands as if he’s offering me a gift.

I shiver, wanting to reach out and touch him. Pull him into some dark corner and kiss until we run out of air.