We stop and listen to three girls sing in harmony for a while, and then I ask, Did he know? Did your father care that you were gay?

Gabriel looks off into the distance and then shrugs. I was doing a shitty job of pretending I was seeing Gloria then, he says with a crack in his voice that stabs me in the stomach. But my papa would have been cool so long as I was happy, I think.

I try to imagine what it would be like if my parents were “cool” and cared about me being happy. I wonder what it would be like to bring a boy home for dinner. For Connor to do the same. To be able to really talk to my parents. To be able to live without hiding.

I tell Gabriel about Connor being kicked out and then feel oddly guilty. My father wasn’t always like this, I say to Gabriel. I mean, maybe he was, and it didn’t matter because we were little and hadn’t done anything to upset him. But I remember him teaching me to play catch and helping me with math homework.

Now I try to avoid him. I wish, I start to say…

What?

Nothing, I reply. True as it is, I can’t bring myself to say the words or stop myself from wishing that his father were still around and mine were gone.

After it stopped raining, after we stopped kissing, after we stopped talking, Gabriel bought a pretzel from a vendor in Washington Square Park and held it out to me.

We break the dough like a wishbone. He gets the bigger piece and smiles mysteriously when I ask what he’s wishing for.

We divvy up the rest of the pretzel and watch some guys dive off the side of the fountain into cartwheels and handstands.

Gabriel studies them and shakes his head. Their form is all off, he says.

Can you do better? I ask and swallow down a wave of excitement at the thought of him balancing and performing in front of me.

I’m rusty, he says. But I can see a hungry light in his eyes that kind of turns me on, and before I know it, he’s pulling off his jacket and stretching out the muscles in his shoulders.

He says something in Spanish to the boys on the fountain, and they stop and slap his hand and give him room.

Then he’s in flight. A blur of muscle and skin tumbling over the concrete so fast I don’t think he’s touching down.

He stops when the boys begin to applaud and comes back to me, barely having broken a sweat, rubbing his calloused hands on his jeans.

That was… I start to say. The rest of the words catch in my throat.

Told you I was rusty, he says. I haven’t done that in a long time and concrete… My coach would have benched me for doing something so stupid.

I stare at him. His eyes are on fire reflecting the streetlamps, and there’s a breeze that’s ruffling his hair, and I’m acutely aware that no song I’ve ever written or even played is as intense as what I’ve just seen.