My eyes prick, and I take a sip of the coffee. It’s good. Bitter. It burns. When I set my mug down, Ben rests his fingers, very lightly, against mine. He doesn’t say anything. Today his nail polish is dark metallic blue.

I am in so much trouble.

I have run his words through my head so many times. What did he mean, exactly? I haven’t seen him since that night Nah collapsed on the kitchen floor, three weeks ago. But we’ve texted, emailed. He likes me. I know he does. Nate certainly teases me enough about it.

I thought I didn’t have time for Zen masters who make me feel like I’m in zero gravity. I need my feet on the ground. But if I stay in Boston, then maybe, when Hannah’s okay and I know for sure I’m staying … maybe I do have time. Later. Not now.

I pull my fingers away. “So … you just, what, sit in your dorm room? Close your eyes?”

“Most days, but a bunch of us got a group going—the Dharma Bums. Students, most of us. We sit, talk. It’s pretty cool.”

“What do you talk about?”

He grabs the biggest brownie in the case and slides it onto a plate, then pushes it toward me. “Oh, you know, the usual: the nature of reality, impermanence, death, and nirvana.”

“Casual conversation.” I take a bite of the brownie. It is a four-by-four-inch portion of heaven.

“Totally.” He leans on the counter. “So. We’ve warmed up with race, gender, and culture. Before we get to politics and the sciences, you gonna tell me why you’re having a bad day?”

I frown. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re less sparkly.”

“I sparkle?” This, I did not know.

“Like Christmas, but not tacky.” He smiles a half smile that is so cute I have to smile back. “Aha! I knew I could make you smile—I used the sly one on you.”

“You categorize your smiles?”

“Of course. I have a whole periodic table.” He gives me a wild grin. “Helium.”

I shake my head. “Geophysicists have way too much time on their hands.”

And then I get a flash—just a second, and it’s gone: me, Mom, Dad, Hannah, Micah, and Ben eating avgolemono, laughing.

“Hey…” Ben squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?”

Compartmentalizing is a key skill for astronauts. Neil Armstrong could simultaneously go to the moon and be the father of a dead child. Maybe Mom’s right and astronauts need to wear their hearts on their sleeves, too, but only after they know they’re not going to become blubbery messes.

I nod. “There’s a lot going on at home.”

“Wanna talk about it?”