Look, kitten, it never pays to be too safe now, does it?

If you two could maybe stop for five minutes, I’m serious here, I throw in.

I’m serious too, Becky says. And, as much as I hate to admit it, James actually makes a good point.

James places his hands over his heart and swoons dramatically. Good lord, he says. Did you hear her? The world is ending.

I cross my arms and wait. It’s a toss-up as to whether they’re more annoying when they’re arguing or agreeing.

Speaking of safety… Look, I get it. It isn’t like you’re going to get pregnant or anything, Becky says as the waitress stops by with more water.

James busts out laughing, while I try to sink under the table.

Anyhow, Becky continues, voice thankfully quieter. Andy’s mom says as far as they can tell, the best way to reduce risk is to avoid taking in any bodily fluids. So don’t get caught up in the moment, Michael. I’d like you not to die.

I think I stop breathing for a moment, but then mumble, Sorry, I opened my mouth. But it’s too late for Becky to let this go.

Right, James? she asks, calling in reinforcements. Tell Michael that I’m right.

James, pale, fiddles with the tiny straw in his drink and looks down at the table when he says, She’s right, Michael. We don’t want you to die.

Becky gets suddenly serious and suddenly pissed off. Really? she says, narrowing her eyes at James. You, of all people.

Me of all people, what? What does that mean? he asks, looking up.

Becky throws her hands in the air and says, Oh, never mind. Michael, make sure you and Gabriel have condoms, just in case. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.

Here I thought I was asking their opinions on what to make Gabriel for dinner. Not about buying condoms, or using condoms, or really even about needing them, although I guess that’s what this is all about, when it all comes down to it. Barriers.

September 1983

My mother keeps me busy running errands. Pick up their dry cleaning. Go to the post office. Bring home the groceries so she can make the food I can’t tell her I’m not going to eat while she’s gone.

With two days left, I’m climbing the walls. When I can finally sneak away, I visit Becky at work.

The minute the store is empty, she goes to the back room, digs into her army bag, the one with alternating checkerboard Canal Jeans buttons and rainbow Unique Boutique ones, and pulls out a small package wrapped in blue and tied with a green ribbon.

Open it later, she says. Not around your parents.

I poke the tissue paper and recognize the shape more from magazine ads than personal experience.

I wonder if everyone’s best friend buys them condoms.

I needed an excuse to go into that store in the Village anyhow, she explains, and I knew you’d chicken out. I was insatiably curious.