I like turning to smoke and fading into the room, but can’t when James is there. James is a beacon, always drawing me to him.

I do, I say. But this time, I want to go with you. It just has to be somewhere that isn’t The Echo, I add, hoping that I don’t have to explain.

James looks at me, a complicated response on his lips. But all he says is, Leave it to me. I’ll figure something out.

Most of Midtown is dark, thanks to a power line fire, so we go to a party in Battery Park thrown by someone James knows from the theater.

At the entrance, we’re stopped by a bouncer dressed head-to-toe in silver glitter, holding some sort of large cat.

She—I think she’s a she—leans over and air-kisses James and then whispers something to him in French. He smiles at her. Cat that ate the canary.

What did she say? I ask, eying the tricolored cat who can’t take its eyes off James.

She asked if you were my lover, he says. Come on, I need a drink.

You can’t escape Madonna, not even here.

While James holds court—he seems to know everyone here; and everyone here, girls, boys, those in-between, or something else altogether, know or want to know him—I dance on my own a few feet away to “Holiday.”

This is different than Echo, and not simply because the Friday night crowd there is always a little less adventurous.

The crowd here is older. More glamourous. More intimidating.

But still, I think of Gabriel.

I close my eyes and dance and sway until I could be anywhere. On Mars, even. And when I open them, James is standing next to me, smiling.

What? I ask. It takes me a minute to come back to reality.

I envy you, he says. You’ve found a way to be content with simply your own company.

Have I? I ask. You sound like Becky’s phone guy. What’s that supposed to mean, anyhow?

He throws back a shot of something. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t need this, he says, waving his empty glass around at the crowd. I wish I didn’t need their attention.

I think about trying to explain that I’m not alone because my head is filled with Gabriel, and however much I love playing the guitar and performing, I enjoy my time with him and James and Becky more, and I’d happily never write another song if that meant Gabriel and I would be…something.

But a look in his eyes stops me, and, high on music and life and love, I lean in and hug him instead.

Everyone is drinking champagne, and the liquid is reflecting the lights strung through the trees so it looks as if stars are dying in the glasses.

While we’re in line for another round, I overhear a guy with a blond beehive say, I just wanted my freaking teeth cleaned. I mean, I’m not even sick. How could he kick me out like that?