“I just said it.”

“Can you control yourself ?”

Hadn’t I just? “Do you not trust me — is that what this is?”

Isabel opened her mouth and then shut it. She turned away, crossed her arms, scowled into the shower. “I haven’t been with one hundred other people, Cole. I haven’t seen a hundred other people naked. I don’t know what —”

She shook her head like she was mad. But I knew Isabel, and I knew that every one of her emotions looked like anger from the outside. It didn’t make this any fairer, because I hadn’t invited the girls over, nor had I known Isabel when I’d slept with all the others. But I’d known when I started this whole thing that we were different in this important way: Isabel had spent her teen years caring who touched her, and I hadn’t.

“I’m not here for anybody else,” I said. This seemed too earnest for her to handle, so I added, “Culpeper. I came here for you.”

She still didn’t look at me. The light came through her iceblond hair, lighting her cheek and chin and neck. I still wanted my gold star, even though I knew there was no way I was getting it tonight. She answered, “Me and that little show you’re doing.”

“That’s my job.”

“Hiding in bathrooms?”

“Making music.”

“I could handle dating someone whose job was making music,” Isabel said. “But I don’t think that’s what your job is.”

I thought I could remember having this conversation with Leyla, and I hadn’t liked it much better then.

“Nobody just makes music. You can’t make a living just making music. I thought this would be better than a label. I thought I’d have more control. You know what? I’ve said all these things. I can remember my face saying them.”

Isabel laughed, as mean and thin as she had when the girl spit, but I was relieved, because it seemed to somehow soften her. She pulled out Virtual Cole and began thumbing through screens. “You thought signing up with Baby North would be better than a label? Even though all of her people end up twitching and drooling on the floor. Nobody makes it out.”

“I’m not like anyone else.”

Isabel stopped scrolling. Her voice was wry and sexy as she said, “Thank God.”

We looked at each other. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were sky blue and unblinking. I hated that I could still feel the remnants of the anxiety batting around inside me. I didn’t want her to go, though I could tell by the way everything had happened and the way she was standing and the way Joan was outside trying to eavesdrop that she had to.

I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

I wanted to tell her Isabel, stay. And I wanted to tell her, Isabel, I love you.

I hadn’t said anything out loud, but Isabel shook her head a little, like don’t.

So I just said, “What about my gold star?”

“Ha!” Her laugh was bitter and annoyed. “Baby has taken your gold star. Breasts have taken your gold star.”

“Do you want, at least, to hear my brilliance? Like, as it is meant to be heard?”

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t move. So I turned off the shower, wiped down the tiled seat inside with a towel, and folded another towel to act as a cushion. I tossed my useless battery-dead headphones into the sink. Then I sat on the shower seat, pulled my MP3 player from my back pocket, and patted the spot beside me.

“This has to stop,” she told me, but she joined me, crossing her epically long legs as she sat. God, she was so beautiful I couldn’t take it.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Earbuds?” She handed me her purse, and I rummaged for them (they were leopard print). Plugging them into my player, I put one bud in my right ear and one bud in her left ear. I scooted closer so that our shoulders were crushed together. As she readjusted the earbud, I checked the screen and then hit play.

For the first minute, she listened. Then her head moved, just a little, the memory of dancing. She could make even that look sexy. I watched her — her eyes were closed, she was just listening, her lips parted a little. I couldn’t get it. I felt like I could only pull off sexy when I thought about it, but I was just as attracted to her when she was trying to attract me as when she wasn’t.

The song looped around; I had forgotten I had it set to repeat.

Isabel’s eyes opened.

“Well?” I asked.

She kissed me.

There was no build to this kiss. No gradual confession of desire conveyed through body language. It was nothing, and then everything. Her hand was on my hand, dragging it over her bare stomach and pressing my palm into her ribs and making it feel the ridge of her hipbone at her belt. Her fingers asked mine to unwrap her. I barely had any breath at all, and her mouth was taking the rest of it.

I stood up, lifting her so that she was never any farther than the earbud cord. I didn’t want her body to stop touching mine, anyway. As the song clanked and stomped jaggedly in my right ear and in her left, we kissed and kissed, her tongue warm on my tongue, her skin smooth under my fingers, her legs curved around mine.

Isabel dragged me toward the door. “Bed.”

I didn’t argue. The song looped again. I fumbled for the doorknob.

On the other side, Joan’s camera looked at us.

I had forgotten. Isabel didn’t flinch, but her eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, lashes dark on her cheek, and then when she opened them again, she was ready for the camera, all truths erased from her expression.

“Hi, Joan,” I said. “Are you staying long? Can I get you a coffee?”

Isabel removed herself from me. Joan, who, for the record, was a humorless trundle elf, merely took a few steps back to allow us to exit the bathroom.

“I’m going to go,” Isabel said.

“Oh,” I protested, “that’s crazy talk.”

But it was true that the forgotten surprise of Joan had had a somewhat deleterious effect on my favorite instrument.

Isabel removed the earbud from my ear and pulled the cord free from the MP3 player. She went to get her purse while I glowered at Joan.

“Thanks for nothing,” I said.

Joan switched off her camera. “Ditto.”

Isabel reappeared. She had reapplied lipstick. I snatched for her on her way by and missed. She stopped at the door, though, and a smile sort of lurked around her mouth. “I think you should get a new job.”