Of course, I say. He stretches the phone into the living room and calls. Murmurs in Spanish in a tone of voice I haven’t heard him use before.

It feels wrong to be so damned turned on by his devotion to his little sister.

After dinner, I take the phone off the hook. I can always tell my mom I forgot to put it back and deal with the fallout later.

We head to my room, and I stare at my boom box.

I should have made a tape.

Music for losing your virginity.

Safely. Of course.

Whatever that means.

At least I know where the condoms are. Not that I want to start with anything that needs condoms. At least I don’t think I do.

I put on Echo and the Bunnymen and then pull the tape and play Spandau Ballet, “True.”

Gabriel wraps his arms around me, and we’re dancing so slowly that we’re barely moving, and I can feel him hard against me and it’s the sexiest, most wonderful, most terrifying thing ever.

He dances us over to the bed and looks into my eyes.

I think he’s going to say something about how much he wants me, how good he feels or something.

Instead, he says, I hope you don’t mind if we use condoms. I’ve been with a lot of guys, and I want to keep you safe.

My heart stops.

The night bleeds away.

We lie in my bed, which has never felt so small, and I can feel my pulse beating as loudly as the bass leaking in the window from the cars stuck at the light outside.

I know that star, Gabriel says, pointing up at the ceiling.

Well, it is yours, I choke out.

Michael, he says. Talk to me.

I sit up. Look at the unopened condoms on the nightstand. Rake my hand through my hair. How many is a lot? I ask before I can stop myself.

We sit on my floor drinking coffee laced with my mom’s cooking brandy. Me out of a Yankees’ mug of my dad’s (if he only knew), while Gabriel’s hands are wrapped around one from St. Sebastian’s (if they only knew).

Gabriel is in gray sweatpants and no shirt, and when my tired eyes keep straying to his abs, I tear them away to watch the twenty black jelly bands he twists on his wrist as he tells me that yes, he’s been with a bunch of guys, but no, he doesn’t have anything, and that when he was talking about being safe he was really thinking about gonorrhea or something as if that’s supposed to make me feel better.

I know you haven’t been with anyone, he says. I only wanted to make sure we were careful.

I know, I say.

And I do. This is exactly what that pamphlet talked about. Caring about someone means wanting to keep them safe. Wanting to keep yourself safe. I can’t blame Gabriel for that. But I can’t form those words out loud, either.