For a sliver of that breath, I feel something. I touch … something. It is wide and deep, dark and light. It is quiet here. Still. It is like shrugging off yourself. Like yourself is a too-heavy coat and you don’t have to wear it anymore.

Silence.

The bell rings.

Good morning, Earth.

My eyes peel open.

I turn to Ben. When he looks at me, that something, that quiet place, it’s there, in his eyes. He smiles. I smile back.

“So,” River says, “this is the dharma according to James Baldwin.” She glances at a piece of paper in her hand.

“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word ‘love’ here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace—not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.”

She looks out at us. “This is what the ride’s all about, my friends. Why we take it in the first place. Love. You’ve never been on a roller coaster that didn’t require some bravery. Right? Like Baldwin says, we need daring and growth. That’s what we’re doing here. We’re daring brave.” She places her palms together. ONLY LOVE. “Now go out there and don’t be assholes to yourself or anyone else. I’ll see you next week.”

Everyone laughs—even me. This is certainly not Midnight Mass with Gram.

“What did it feel like?” Ben asks later—much later.

We are at the Middle East and our bellies are full and he has pulled me into a corner. It’s so crowded here you can’t even see the floor. The room smells like old beer and good food. I suspect we are the only people drinking smoothies.

I think about it. “Like … finding zero gravity while on Earth.”

“The geophysicist version of that is grounded.” He takes my drink out of my hand and sets it on the counter beside us, then takes my hands in his.

“What are you—”

“Do you remember that night on the couch, how you told me the universe was once so small we could hold it in the palm of our hands?”

I nod. “And you … you said…”

“I am in so much trouble,” he whispers. “Do you know why I said that?”

I shake my head. Even though I know. This would be so much easier if he didn’t feel like a deep breath, like that bell, ringing: Good morning, Earth.

“Because, Mae, you hold me. Just like that. You hold me in the palm of your hand.”

He brings my palm to his lips. I don’t have an equation for turning into starlight.

It is the seventh time I cry in my life.

“Oh god,” he says, panicked. “Tell me this is good crying.”