Morgan leaned against the counter a few feet away. Emilia started steaming the mussels; then, once the pots were all lidded and on their way to boiling, she stepped into Morgan’s embrace. They stood like that in the kitchen. Morgan had a curiously serious look in her eyes, and while Emilia’s body still ached from the kiss they’d shared earlier in the boat, she refrained from acting on any wayward impulses.

“This is the first time you’ve had me over,” Morgan said.

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

She tucked her hands into Morgan’s belt and toyed with the loops. “It’s . . . weird.”

“We can go to my place, if you want.”

“It’s not weird in a bad way. I . . . I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Do you believe in heaven?”

Startled, Emilia bit her lip before answering. “I don’t know. I didn’t, before Dad. I’m not religious. But now . . .” She trailed off, then forced herself to continue. “I just can’t believe I’ll never see him again, or talk to him, or . . .” Her throat closed up.

“One of my best friends died a few years ago.” Morgan wiped a tear from Emilia’s cheek as she spoke. “It’s the hardest thing in the world to lose someone you love. Nothing about it makes sense.”

Emilia nodded, unable to speak.

“The only thing that ever helped me was thermodynamics.”

She stared at Morgan, here in her father’s kitchen, brushing her strong hands through her hair. “Thermodynamics?”

“Yes.” Morgan’s thumb rested on the curve of her jaw. “Conservation of energy. Science can prove they are still with us.”

“I can’t talk to protons and atoms.”

“Have you tried?”

“What do I do, call his cell?”

“Out loud. Talking out loud.”

“No.”

Morgan pulled Emilia’s loose hair toward her and let it drape over her shoulder, running her hands through the strands. The gentle tug soothed something deep and animal inside her, and the door she’d slammed shut on her feelings opened.

“I’m so angry at him for leaving.”

Tears followed the confession. Morgan pulled her in, and she sobbed convulsively into her shoulder until the sounds of rattling pot lids punctured the bubble of her grief. She surfaced, aware she must look like a wreck, and aware also that Morgan was looking at her with a compassion born not of pity, but of understanding, and in this moment she was friend and lover and could not have cared less about puffy eyes and tear-stained shirts.

“Pasta,” Emilia said.

“Hey.” Morgan tilted her chin to look her squarely in the eye. “I’m here for you. Whatever happens. Whatever you need. Okay?”