Friday night I can't sleep. I lie in bed as the wind whips tree branches against the side of the house. There's a flutter in my stomach, and the only thing I can think about is that Emma's coming home.

I rehearse what I'm going to do and say. Should I hug her when I see her, or will she not want to be touched? Should I act happy that she's safe, or hang back and follow her lead? There are too many questions in my head and not enough answers.

I grab my phone and glance at the time. It's after three. Guess it's not Friday anymore.

What I'd really like to do is text Smith, but he has an All Hands on Deck fundraiser in the morning and keeps his phone on do not disturb. Along with being president of the senior class, he's president of that, too. It's an anti-drug club he started sophomore year. Mr. Zhang oversees it.

When Smith's grandfather was in his prime, he abused every substance known to man, and his mom has shared the unstable stories of her childhood with her kids. Smith's terrified it's genetic; that the curse of addiction has been passed on to him.

Not that he goes around preaching about drinking and drug use. He doesn't have to. Our friends aren't into those things either. Sure, they might have the occasional beer at a party, but I've never seen any of them fall-down drunk, or high. Smith just offers to be the designated driver in case someone decides to have a drink.

That's it. Sleep isn't happening. I scrub a hand over my face and roll out of bed, drag myself down stairs, and fling open the fridge. I'm not really hungry, so I settle on a glass of milk.

Cooper lets out a series of desperate meows and circles my bare feet until I pour a serving into his bowl, too.

I flip on the TV and settle back on the couch, covering myself with a chenille blanket. There's nothing to watch except fitness infomercials and reruns of police dramas that are at least three decades old.

With my head snuggled in a throw pillow, the flicker from the TV lulls me to sleep, and the next thing I know, early-morning sunlight cuts through the curtains and warms my face. I rub my eyes and stretch.

"I'm surprised to see you up so early. This is Saturday morning, isn't it?" Mom leans against the doorway sipping coffee, her burgundy-painted lips set in a teasing smirk. Steam rises from her mug and the scent of hazelnut fills the room.

I yawn and push myself to a sitting position. "What time is it?"

"Almost seven." She takes another swallow. "What time did you come downstairs?"

"I don't know. Sometime after three?"

She doesn't need to ask what's on my mind. "When's she coming home?"

All I can do is shake my head.

"I have to meet with a client in an hour, but we could go shopping afterward, if you'd like. Or maybe out to lunch after your soccer game?"

"Thanks, but I don't need a distraction. I want to be here when Emma gets home."

Mom gives me a lopsided smile. "Emma knows where you live, and I'm sure she'll stop by when she's ready. I wouldn't try to push things."

It's the same advice I gave my friends the other day. Only, those rules don't apply to me, do they? Not to her very best friend. But Mom's jaw is set, and that means I won't win any arguments here.

"You're right." I nod like I really mean it, even though I don't. "We'll see about lunch, okay? Thank you for asking."

But when lunch time rolls around, I shoot down her second invitation. And I bow out of the soccer game against South Liberty High, claiming cramps. Coach was pissed, but what could she say? I do, however, want Smith to come over. So, when he calls, I jump at the chance to see him.

"Any news yet?" It's the first thing he asks when he walks in.

"No." I shoot another glance out the window. Late afternoon sun veils Emma's house in a warm golden glaze, and casts uneven shadows across the front lawn. "I wonder if they're still coming back today. It's already after five."

Hospitals may run around the clock, but my dad is a doctor. After years of waiting for him to finish his rounds, I learned most patients want to bust out as early in the day as possible. Especially on the weekends.

"You've been staring out that window all day. How about I make you kids something to eat?" Mom suggests. She's sitting on the couch, her long legs curled beneath her, and a romance novel open in her lap.

Smith pounces on the offer, but my stomach's been in knots. Still, shoving food around my plate sounds like a welcome break after all the gawking I've been doing.

As Mom whips up a Cobb salad with homemade bread, Smith and I settle in at the kitchen table. His gray button-up is open, showing a black T-shirt underneath. Every time he moves the flannel sways, and I can make out the curve of muscle beneath the material. He may not be an athlete but he's in fantastic shape thanks to his daily workouts at the school gym, a routine he's followed since freshman year.

"I hate to be nosy," Mom says as she passes out wooden salad bowls and slips into a chair, "but what are you going to tell Emma about your relationship?"

I suck in a breath and almost choke. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Well, you must have discussed it. Right? And if you haven't, you'd better." Her fork pierces through a chunk of grilled chicken and she delicately nibbles on the end.

I refuse to meet Smith's gaze. This is a conversation I'd rather not have in front of my mother. On the other hand, it's a question I've been dying to ask, but haven't had the nerve. I guess I was hoping he'd bring it up so I wouldn't have to.

Though I'd always had a secret crush on him, our relationship wasn't intentional. When Emma disappeared, we leaned on each other for support. Kept each other sane. And as the two people closest to her, we found comfort in our shared grief.

Days turned into weeks turned into months and our feelings grew. We fought it at first, not wanting to disrespect Emma's memory. But when you find yourself in love, the last thing you want to do is turn away.

And I am in love with him. I have been, ever since my first panic attack in second grade. Emma was absent that day, and we were in art class, kneading clay into small vases to be kilned as a gift for Mother's Day.

I can't recall how it started, why I was so freaked out. All I remember is not being able to breathe, like a rhinoceros was sitting on my chest. And out of the blue, Smith appeared by my side. He held my hand, whispering into my ear, until I finally caught my breath.

With the teacher's permission, he walked me to the nurse and stayed the entire time. He wouldn't even return to class until I was well enough to go with him.

I've been hooked ever since.

Smith clears his throat. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Just so we're on the same page."

My lips part but nothing comes out.

He takes that as an invitation to continue. "I think we should hold off telling her about us until we know what kind of state she's in."

A lump grows in my throat. I try to swallow past it but it's too big.

That's what I was afraid he'd say—not that I don't agree. The situation is precarious and we need to take it slow. But hearing it come out of his mouth only confirms my worst fears.

What if he still has feelings for her?

Of course, he does. Why wouldn't he? It's not like they broke up. They were ripped apart. And by anyone's standards, even my own, it hasn't been that long.

I'm ashamed of how I feel. That I can't let it go. But sometimes, watching him and Emma together was like a spear through my heart. I can't imagine what that would feel like now, after all this time of having him to myself.

Except I don't want Emma to hurt that way either. So, now that she's coming home, I plan to do whatever I can to make her life easier.

Even if it means doing something I don't want to.

I close my eyes, inhale, let it out through my mouth. When I open them, Mom and Smith are staring at me. "I agree."

"I knew you'd feel the same way." Smith cups my hands in his and smiles. "The most important thing is easing her back into a routine. I've been reading up on what it's like when survivors come home. She'll need time to readjust. Maybe even a lot of time."

A sudden beam of light arcs over the wall in the living room and it can only mean one thing: a car has pulled into the driveway next door.

I jump from my chair and race to the window just as the Navarro's Lexus disappears into their garage. The sun is hiding behind clouds now and it's starting to drizzle. I stare through the gray haze, unable to tear my eyes from their house. I'm not even sure what I'm expecting. For Emma to open the front door and race across the lawn to say hi?

But that's not what happens. Nothing happens. And for the next hour, I stare out the window as rain pelts against the glass, obscuring my view. Occasionally my gaze drifts to my phone, but it's just as stagnant in my hand.

Eventually Smith says goodbye and gives me a peck on the cheek, but I'm so hyper-focused I barely notice. It's not until Mom closes the door behind him that I'm aware he's left.

"You never finished your dinner," she says.

"I'm not hungry."

"Arbor, honey. Can you please give up your vigil for the night?"

I sniffle, rub my sleeve against my nose. Stubborn as a toddler. "I don't want to."

There's a hand on my shoulder and Mom is standing behind me. I never heard her approach. "I'm afraid that's not a request. It's time to get some sleep."

I turn to her, my jaw slack. "You're sending me to bed?"

"If you're not going to finish your dinner, then yes."

Electric sparks shoot through my limbs like lightning, leaving behind trails of heat. "I'm not a little kid anymore. You can't force me to go to my room."

Mom's eyes narrow. "As long as you're living under my roof, young lady, you'll do as I say." There's still a crease across her forehead, but her expression softens the longer she studies me. Her shoulders sink as she reaches for a lock of my hair, letting it slide between her fingers and fall to my chest. "I know you want to see her but give it some time. If I know Emma, you won't have to wait long."

She folds her arms around me and I collapse in the embrace. It's a relief. Like I've been swimming at sea for days and have finally reached dry land. "I'm sorry. It's just ..." A tear slips down my cheek and I wipe it away.

"It's okay." Mom's hand follows the curve of my head, soft and slow, like when I was a little girl. "Why don't you call it a night? Sleep will do you good."

Reluctantly, I agree and trudge up the stairs, throw on pajamas, and slip into bed, not even bothering to wash the makeup from my face. Cooper curls at my feet, his tail twisting around his white body like a coil. Before I turn off the table lamp, I scroll through my phone one last time.

No text messages or notifications. Not from Emma, Smith, or anyone else. But on every one of my social media accounts, posts flood my feeds about the girl that's back from the dead. A wannabe reporter from the high school newspaper has even uploaded his amateur true crime blog debating possible theories on what happened.

An uneasy sensation gnaws at my stomach. Maybe I should shoot Emma a text? Nothing long or complicated. I won't ask questions, or make assumptions. Just a quick message, letting her know I'm thinking of her.

No, I can't do that. Give her some time, that's what Mom said. Don't rush things.

Frustration skitters along my skin, leeches from my pores and fills the room. Sleep. I need sleep. I need to shut out the world and stop dwelling. I'm an expert at dwelling. I do it better than anyone I know. I'm about to flip off the light when something shifts outside my window.

Tap, tap, tap.

My breath catches as the pane slides open, like it's done thousands of times before. Denim-clad legs swing over the sill, followed by a wiry body, oversized navy sweatshirt, and a curtain of dark hair.

Cooper lets out a low hiss and my blood runs cold.

The visitor straightens her shoulders, smiles from the foot of my bed, the breeze rustling the papers on my desk. "Hey there, Hayes. Long time no see."

Brown eyes latch onto mine, like they're trying to predict what I'm going to do.

But I can't do anything. I'm in shock, and there's only one thought circling around in my brain.

The girl standing in front of me is not Emma Navarro.