I stop then, and all the music is frozen in the air, waiting for the librarian’s response. Either the notes are going to come to life again or they’re going to fall to the ground and shatter like ice.

A pause. Then . . .

Bruce opens his mouth and sings back to me: “No—you don’t understand. I’m the one who’s not good enough for you.”

And suddenly it’s a duet.

“I’m not sexy,” he sings.

“Yes, you are,” I sing back.

“I’m too selfish,” I sing.

“No, you’re not,” he sings back.

“I’m afraid,” he sings.

“That’s okay,” I sing back.

“I’m afraid,” I sing.

“That’s okay,” he sings back.

We always see our worst selves. Our most vulnerable selves. We need someone else to get close enough to tell us we’re wrong. Someone we trust.

Yes, I know Bruce will never look good on the dance floor. I know he’s got issues. I know he’s a mutant.

But I like that.

I just have to convince him. The same way he needs to convince me he doesn’t think I’m reckless and heartless.

This is what we need to do.

We know it won’t all happen now. And it can’t ever happen perfectly.

But we can get close.

He asks me why we haven’t slept with each other yet, and I explain to him how I want to wait, how that means something, and I think of how stupid I’ve been not to explain it earlier, not to let him in on the meaning. And I ask him why he left the club that night, and he tells me how scared he was, how irrelevant he felt.

“I took you for granted,” I say.

And he says, “No. I just bolted too soon. I should’ve said something to you. Then I would’ve known it was in my head, not yours.”

I have been guilty before of kissing people to shut them up. I have kissed boys (and girls) out of pity or desire for power or just to be flirty. But when I kiss Bruce now—when we hold each other and kiss each other and try so hard to feel every ounce of it—I’m not trying to dodge anything or avoid anything or tease anything or control anything. It’s love that kisses him. Pure and simple love.

If this were a musical, the orchestra would swoon to a stop, the audience would begin to applaud, the lights would go out. And then there’d be another number.

In this case, the librarian and the traveling salesman remain on the stage. They wait for the audience to file out of their seats. They wait for the orchestra to pack up its instruments and go home for the night. They stand there on the stage until it’s just the two of them left.

Even with no one else around, they sing.

It’s late when I get home to Naomi.

I pass Gabriel on the way to the elevator.

“You better be good to her” is all I say to him.

“I will be” is all he says back to me.

I tiptoe through my apartment, careful not to wake the moms. I find Naomi sleeping in my bed—sleeping off all the sleeplessness of the past months, sleeping past all the tiredness. Seeing her like that, the sheets scrunched up in her hands (she’s always been a total sheet-snatcher) and her one foot dangling over the side (she always likes it to be free), I feel like I know her. Really know her. And part of really knowing her is also knowing that I don’t necessarily know her as well as I think I do. Which is okay. We should each have our own damn souls.

I take off my shoes, my jacket, my tie. She stirs a little when I climb onto the bed—on top of the sheets, careful. I have four pillows on my bed, each in an identical pillowcase, and yet she always knows the best one to take. I shift a little, make myself comfortable on the second-best pillow. I turn on my side so I can see her in the dark.

“How’d it go?” she asks me in a sleep-infused voice.

“Good,” I say. “Really good.”

“Thank God,” she says, shifting her knee so that it touches mine. This is the closest we’ll get all night—this is both the distance and the closeness that we need.

I could have stayed over with Bruce, but this is where I wanted to end my night. This is what I wanted to come back to. This is as much a part of my story as anything else. Friendship is love as much as any romance. And like any love, it’s difficult and treacherous and confusing. But in the moment when your knees touch, there’s nothing else you could ever want.

“Good night, Robin,” I say.

“Good night, Robin,” Naomi replies.

“Good night, Mrs. Loy.”

“Good night, Kelly.”

“Good night, Cutie Patootie.”

“Cutie Pie.”

“Sorry. Good night, Cutie Pie.”

“Buenas noches, Donnie Weisberg.”

“Good night, Dairy Queens.”

“Good night, Bruce the First.”

“Good night, Moms.”

“Good night, Mom. And Dad.”

“Good night, Gabriel the hot boyfriend.”

“Good night, Bruce the good boyfriend.”

“Good night, Naomi.”

“Good night, Ely.”

It’s a total lie to say there’s only one person you’re going to be with for the rest of your life.