I’m still speechless as he pulls out his wallet and shows me a picture of himself with a little girl on his lap. She has dark pigtails and a huge smile, and she’s looking at him with the same expression I probably have on my face, like I’m looking at someone so good he probably can’t be real.

He says, That’s Sophia, my little sister. She’s why I gave it up. She’s the reason I work so hard.

I cough to clear my throat and bring my thoughts back down to earth. You didn’t want to finish school first?

After my father was killed, it wasn’t about what I wanted. It was about not getting evicted.

Maybe you can go back someday, I say.

Gabriel turns and takes my hand, blocking the action from the boys with his body. His eyes are on his own rough hands as they run over my fingers, calloused from playing guitar.

Does it matter to you? he asks, not looking up. That I didn’t finish school. Do you care?

What? No, I say, backtracking, because really, it doesn’t make any difference. Then I add, But I’d like to see you do that again. I gesture at the fountain. You’re really good.

He pauses. Then says softly, That was another life, but I’m glad you think so.

When he turns, opening us up so everyone can see, he doesn’t let go of my hand.

I don’t have your phone number, I joke as we get back to the subway station…well, half joke. How do I know you’re really who you say you are?

Gabriel, serious, says, I’m never home. I’m like my papa, always working. I try to pick up odd jobs when I can. My mother cleans apartments all day while my sister is in school. At night, she needs to sleep so we keep the ringer off. Also, her English isn’t so hot.

I nod like I’m okay with all of his justifications that sound to me like excuses. But I still wonder.

I miss my curfew.

Mom tuts. Disappointed. I thought we could trust you, Michael.

My father glares, face reddening as if he’s been waiting for this moment since I was born. Where were you? he snarls. I hope to hell you have a good explanation.

I don’t remind him that I’m only forty-five minutes late. Not like Connor when he used to stumble in at five in the morning, drunk and high and smelling of sex.

Still, I let my hand snake around my stomach, thinking of how Gabriel’s was there a little over an hour ago.

The subway was late, I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking, not from fear but from an intense stab of desire, And the pay phone on the platform was broken, smashed to bits. You should have seen it.

I look straight at my father, daring him to come up with a response.

For a minute, I think he’s going to hit me, although he hasn’t gone there since I was ten. We stare at each other, and I realize we’re the same height; I’m not sure when that happened.