I was lucky I had him. I didn’t move to San Francisco in search of love. I would frown upon someone for falling in love among ashes. Perhaps I wasn’t actively seeking love; rather, longevity. It seemed nothing was solidified; nothing was guaranteed to return a smile the following day. Even if it were not my pain, per se, to simply witness the pain of loss from afar was enough to plummet my ailing psyche back into the pit it was attempting to crawl out of. Donald was my rope. A thin rope at first, but our threads were growing in number. I had to be sure I didn’t hang myself. After spending the rest of the day together, Donald and I ended our day’s adventure in the confinements of his bedroom. He laid me down on his bed, gently kissing my neck, and I knew without a doubt that the interaction would go no further than heated kissing and clothed entanglement. I made that abundantly clear prior to his closing of the bedroom door. There would be no raunchy stories for Gwen to salivate over the following morning. I didn’t feel dirty, and for once the oppression of guilt momentarily subsided. I was allowed to find mild pleasure without feeling disgraceful or distasteful. His touch brought a rush similar to the feeling I’d experienced on country Oklahoma roads with local high school all-stars a few years prior, but there was something much more. The physical effects he had on my body were coupled with the idea that he might be something solid. That he might be there day after day.

That he might not fade away.

 “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

 “You’re hairy,” I replied hastily, evoking a chuckle. “You’re beautiful too.”

 “Beautiful?” He momentarily halted the tongue massage on my neck.

 “Handsome. Hairy and handsome.”

 “And a distraction?”

 The question caught me off guard. Initially I assumed he’d be little more than that, a distraction. A distraction from everything going on around me. Gradually, I had accepted the idea that exploring realms beyond friendship and preoccupation with this

gentleman was something I could be okay with.

“No.Yes and no. What am I?”

 “A girl,” he said playfully, scanning my face for hints.

 “You’re not just a distraction. Something to take my mind off of Buddies and the hospital, yes; but I like you.”

 “Me too.”

 “You too?”

 “I like you. But you’re my escape. Sometimes I feel like there’s no escape. I can either close my eyes and see their faces, see Toby’s face, or I can see yours. I miss him. Maybe I miss him too much.”

 His eyes were dry yet flooded with pain. There was no way the average farm boy from rural Texas could digest losing one of his closest friends in such a short

 period of time. Had he been back home and his buddy been killed in an accident, Donald would have had monumental support and guidance throughout the grief process. Here, everyone had a Toby, a Logan, all of our friends were losing friends. Attempting to share feelings with our social group would only add turmoil to their grief-stricken lives.

 “I can be that. I’d like to be that,” I muttered as I kissed him.

 The passion left our fingertips quicker than it mounted in them. He ran the tip of his index finger under my eye, tracing it to my earlobe. It was as if we bottled the explosive emotions for another night and took comfort in companionship. I wasn’t trying to be a hero, but I certainly wasn’t trying to write a love story either. At this point, I was comfortable moving through this experience with this person and allowing myself a temporary reprieve from my constant over analyzing—whatever happens, happens—just let it be, and it will be.