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enough when you’re sober and it’s daylight.
    After I saw a photo of the crash site, Becker’s hand-me-down Celica accordioned into the broad base of a chestnut tree, I realized how likely it was that I could have been in the car with them. Give me a beer and I don’t make the greatest decisions either.
    What was scarier, though, was realizing that, for a minute, I wished I had been in the car. That I was gone, too, wherever you go after you die, with Danny.
    That’s when it started. Knowing that I couldn’t turn back time and climb into the backseat the way I had so many other nights, but wanting Danny with me again so much that I started to give serious thought to whether or not I could make that happen.
    When I remembered that fluttering white paper bird, I was convinced.
    I look at Danny now, just as pale, just as delicate somehow, and he smiles at me. Reaches out to stroke my cheek, tucking hair behind my ear. Snugs his hips closer, all lean, hard bone beneath the jeans I convinced his mom to give me. “He wrote my name on them,” I’d told her, pointing to where he’d written it in Sharpie on the inside of one calf, and she’d swallowed tears before she kissed my forehead.
    He’d been buried in a dark gray suit and a white shirt with an ice blue tie knotted at his throat. I’d burned it all the day I brought the jeans home. I’d picked up a couple of shirts at the thrift store downtown. The suit smelled like the graveyard, dark and sour, and in it he looked nothing like the Danny I knew.
    He brushes his mouth against my hair now, and strokes along my hip, fingers curling in my belt loops, pulling me closer still. I swallow hard, trying not to shudder.
    He’s so cold now. Always so cold, skin icy smooth. And his body is so quiet—the distant bump of a heartbeat, the thrum of blood flowing through veins, never seemed noticeable until it was gone. I wriggle around to tilt my head up and kiss him, hoping it will be enough.
    It never is anymore. For a little while he’ll relax, kiss me slowly, lingering and tasting, but it doesn’t last.
    It’s hard to go backward, after all. Even for me, because I can remember what it felt like to let our kisses wander away from our mouths, to peel off clothes to reveal new places to touch, to taste.
    I remember the way I could feel his heartbeat in the pulse at his throat, racing and stuttering. How warm he was, his cheeks fevered, his hands hot and firm.
    But it’s not like that anymore. Not for me, anyway, and every time I have to pull away I’m aware of how strong he is, how much he wants something I can’t give him. I can’t believe he can’t sense the way I tense up, stiff and panicked, or the jackrabbit thump of my own pulse, poised for flight.
    Gabriel would . The thought hits me out of nowhere, so unwelcome that I blink and push Danny away too roughly as I struggle to sit up.
    Gabriel has no place in my head, and definitely not here in the loft. It’s hard not to glance around the dark room, as if, wherever he is, Gabriel can hear what I’m thinking even now.
    “Wren,” Danny starts, sitting up with me and sliding his arm around my waist. “Don’t. Don’t … stop. You always stop now.”
    Every word is weighted, heavy with confusion and frustration, and I give in a little and lay my head on his shoulder. It’s all my fault, every bit of this. It’s like one of those hedge mazes. Once you’re in, turned around without any landmarks, there’s nothing to do but keep going until you find your way out.
    I have a long way to go, I know. Until then, I can only do this: gently push him onto his back, kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, and whisper, “Sleep now, Danny. Sleep. I want you to sleep.”
    He can’t fight it, even though I can tell he wants to. He doesn’t even have to sleep anymore, just as he doesn’t need to eat or breathe. But when I tell him something like this, when I give him a direct command, he can’t help himself.
    I didn’t