Connor’s shoulders relax, and he allows himself a moment to look relieved. Then he tosses the pills back to me again.

Keep them, he says, back to his usual attitude. I’m sure you’re going to pop your cherry at some point.

I don’t exactly throw Connor out; but I assist him in finding the door.

But then, in the silence, it hits me.

Connor is right. Gabriel might be sick and not even know it.

Connor might be sick and not telling me.

I don’t know how to protect them.

I don’t know how to protect myself.

How do I live my life without becoming a statistic?

My parents return. My dad grumbles about the traffic and the prices and my mom taking too long to pack.

My mom looks at me, but doesn’t really see me. She tells me not to forget to take out the trash.

I fantasize about standing in the middle of the living room and screaming that I’ve had my heart broken, but I doubt anyone would care.

I call Becky and offer to meet her at St. Patrick’s when she gets off work. I don’t need to bribe her to hang out with me. I actually want to go to the church and lose myself in the quiet. And maybe she’ll have some insights for me.

After I meet her and hug her and basically can’t form words for over a half hour, she leads me to a pew.

It’ll feel better after you talk about it, she says.

I’m skeptical about that, but it’s Becky so I tell her everything.

She takes my hand in hers and says, Okay, first off, I don’t know anything about what Connor gave you, but Andy’s mom always talks about how there is no cure or prevention for this thing, so promise me you’re going to ignore those pills. Seriously, Michael.

And I know you think Connor can be a bit self-absorbed, but taking the risk to come to your apartment is probably the nicest thing I’ve heard of him doing.

Yes on both counts, I say.

But as for Gabriel…

Don’t judge him, Becks, I beg, I’m not sure I have the energy.

I feel her hand tense in mine, but all she says is, I’m not judging. He’s old enough to make up his own mind about how to live his life. And I give him credit for being honest with you. But don’t hate me for being glad you didn’t sleep with him.

I know I should be glad too, but I’m not, I mumble. Not if I’m being really honest.

Oh, Michael, she says as she puts her arm around me and pulls me close. Do you know what I repeat to myself when I wake up in the middle of the night and Mom is gone or puking in the bathroom?

What?

This too shall pass, she says. Seriously, I get that it sounds sappy, but sometimes that’s the only thing that gets me through the day, just being aware that the time will come when I look back on this and know how it all plays out. Even if that sucks.