I’m in and out of sleep all night, my brain waking me up every few hours, and I’m relieved when I open my eyes and it’s morning. The house is still quiet, so I make my way back down to the computer. I’m about to type in Night Sky House again when a voice comes from behind me, startling me so much, I jump from the chair.

“How’s it going?”

It’s Emma, wearing flip-flops and pajamas, a coffee mug in each hand. For a moment I freeze. Our last interaction was not great, and I know I probably owe her an apology, but the tightening in my chest isn’t allowing it, plus, I’m too sleep-deprived to even begin to figure out what that apology should be.

Thank god I hadn’t typed in the website yet. “Okay.”

Emma crosses the room, handing me a mug. “Have you looked more at the astronomy program?” she asks. “The applications are due next week.”

It takes me a few seconds to remember—again—what she’s referring to. I gesture vaguely toward the computer. “I was just about to look at it again. The program.”

My voice pitches too high, which is a dead giveaway that I’m lying, but Emma doesn’t react. Instead, she sets the coffee on the computer desk, then steps back. It feels like a tiny peace offering, plus, it smells incredible. Not that it erases what she said last night about my mom, but I’m not going to turn down coffee. I reach out and take the cup, trying to focus on the heat rather than the anxiety in my chest.

I hope she’ll leave, but instead she settles into one of the dining room chairs. “Audrey was up half the night with a stuffy nose, and I’m so tired, I feel like I’m going to murder someone. Not you,” she says quickly. “But someone. How was your walk last night? You were out late.”

My back tenses. Am I getting in trouble? But when I turn around her face is smooth and calm. Keep it simple. “It was nice.”

“Good,” she answers. For one hopeful moment I think maybe we’re going to sidestep all of yesterday’s unpleasantness, sweep it all aside, but then she clears her throat and I know that was wishful thinking. Unless it has to do with my mom, avoidance is not Emma’s style. “Mason, I want to talk to you about yesterday.”

My throat feels tight. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “I gave you the box because I wanted you to know that I know your mom. Really know her. And I will always consider Naomi to be one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever known. She’s… amazing.”