I take a deep breath. Then another. I get that she’s worried about James, but her flood of words feels bigger than that somehow.

Is Andy’s mom okay? I ask. Is she…scared?

Becky sits up and says, Of course she’s scared, but she’s volunteering to work in those wards; some of the nurses won’t even go into them. I don’t know what she’s saying to Andy, but she keeps telling me not to assume that being a girl is going to keep me safe.

We’re quiet for a long time after that until Becky shades her eyes and stares down at me. She says, I lit a candle for James in church last night.

Becks, about this whole church thing, I start as I sit up.

She grabs my hand again. You have your music, she says. Your dancing. Even your brother. Andy is always busy these days, I spend more time talking to his mom than to him. My mom is falling apart. I’m not sure how much I have. At least let me have God.

I squeeze her hand and stay silent. Even I’m not stupid enough to argue with God.

On Friday, I’m back at the club. Dancing with Gabriel. Losing myself in his eyes.

From the DJ booth Danni plays The Cure’s “Let’s Go to Bed.” I’d forgotten how sad the lyrics of this song were. Lost love and misplaced lust. But it’s still damn good to dance to.

I love the song enough to try to ignore the implications. Ignore the heat, and the need, and the invitation that’s sitting on my lips.

Because we can’t just go to bed, or anyplace else, really. My bed is in my parents’ house. A fortress of hate.

But there’s a pressure that’s building, building, building. And Gabriel dances in front of me, white shirt pulling tight over his biceps, 501s hugging his ass, sweat curling his hair right above his collar.

Next is Berlin’s “Sex (I’m A…)” and it’s too much. I cough an apology to Gabriel and head back to the DJ booth. Danni pretends I’m not there.

Can you dial it back? I yell over Terri Nunn’s percussive orgasmic notes.

Danni takes off his headphones. Don’t know what you mean, Michael. I’m just playing what’s making them dance.

I give up and get a Coke. Watch Gabriel watching me while I try to ignore the music, which is impossible when it’s blasting loud enough to shake the walls. When it’s making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When it’s echoing this hunger inside of me.

Gabriel makes a circuit from the dance floor to the bar where he borrows a pen and a napkin, writes a note, and brings to me. Let’s go somewhere more private is scrawled in swirling script.

It’s like he’s reading my mind. Giving me what I want. What I’ve wanted for a while. I hope he knows someplace.

But if it’s what I want, why the hell am I so scared?