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Kleenex—it doesn’t matter that you’ve used one, because another will just pop up in its place. That’s not us . Even without your accident, that wouldn’t be us. We’ve been together a long time now,” Gabe goes on. “And yes, I want you. You know I do. But I didn’t want to make love to you for the first time on somebody else’s schedule. You know that, right?”
    My insides are knotted tighter than a chain net on a basketball hoop. Make love to you? The phrase makes me squeamish. Does it have to be so formal? And why is Gabe aiming for perfection now ? As 39/262
    everyone in the entire gossipy senior class probably knows, he already lost his virginity—the summer before we met, at a journalism camp.
    “I mean, I didn’t say anything about it on prom night because sex at prom is a real cliché, right?”
    “The prom,” I sigh. Prom had been a night of pumpkin chariots, slow dancing in a strapless, ocean-blue Vera Wang, feeling glitzy and perfect next to Gabe, until we were in his ’Stang and we were on the highway, driving and not sure where to, just the two of us, no need for parties, and we could have owned the entirety of the world that night, the top down, wind destroying my up-do, but who cared, because there had never been anyone as free, all the way to Kimberling City, a good seventy miles from home, to stand at the edge of Table Rock Lake while the sun dyed the water the same color as orange childhood lollipops, and Gabe started tracing a pattern on my bare shoulders. Know what it is? he’d asked. The infinity symbol. Just like us …
    “How’s the Carlyle sound?” he whispers now, into my ear.
    “The Carlyle,” I repeat, as Gabe wraps his arms around my waist.
    “I was going to surprise you when you got back from Minnesota. But I figure, it’ll give you something to look forward to … ”
    “The Carlyle,” I say again, like these are suddenly the only two words I know in the entirety of the English language.
    “I’ve already put a deposit down on a room. A night of our own, on our own time.”
    My head becomes a carousel on warp speed. “Swankiest hotel around,” I mumble. “Guess—that’s—the perks of snagging a summer job at a prestigious law firm in Springfield.”
    “I’m the grunt under the paralegal, Chelse. That’s all. No capital murder cases this year. But it beats flipping burgers. Besides,” Gabe goes on, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eye. “I’ll spend whatever I want on what should be one of the most important nights of your life. Of our lives.”
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    I roll my eyes at him, wordlessly reminding him that the gossip about FGH’s gorgeous sports editor and a mystery journalist from a rival school had spread through the girls’ locker room long before he’d started dogging me in the hallways, flirting shamelessly with me. Gabe shakes his head insistently, whispers, “I’ve never been with somebody I love . And you deserve much more than the Carlyle, Chelse. I’d fly you to Paris if I could.”
    The espresso I’ve made for Gabe has drizzled down from the coffeemaker into a tiny white cup. But we just stand there, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. I can feel Gabe’s pulse racing through every inch of his skin, even through his shirt. I know I ought to do something—say something—utterly romantic. But I’m no poet. I’m an ex-ball player with zero experience in the bedroom. And I’m too tall even to put my head on Gabe’s chest.
    Suddenly, now that it’s upon me, now that it’s going to be real, my fantasy’s taking a detour. I see Gabe and me in some lush bedroom, tangled in the heat of passion … but when Gabe puts the weight of his beautiful body on top of mine, the room fills with the sound of metal crunching. What is that? Gabe asks, lifting himself off me. But it’s too late—the metal plate in my hip (every time I think of it, I always picture the rusted metal roofing that tops outbuildings in and near Fair Grove) has