Lo’s dark gray crew-neck fits him snuggly, an arrowhead necklace against his chest: a present I gave him for his twenty-first birthday some time ago. I can see the lines of his abs tightening beneath his shirt, especially as he begins to move his body to the song. Girls record him with fangirling giggles, their cellphones directed at my best friend. But his gaze is solely planted on me. When we were younger, Lo was the one who taught me how to dance. He’s always been able to move like no one is watching, like no one can harm him in this brief expanse of time.
