by Trish Doller
“Did you just—” Taylor stops in front of Willa, her mouth falling open as she looks at the spot where the phone splashed down.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“I came to offer you a ride home,” Taylor says defensively. “Campbell can bring the boat back to Sandusky tomorrow.”
“You completely ruined my summer.”
“You can come work at the farm stand.”
Willa gives a strangled cry. “You stood in front of Finley’s ashes, called me a bitch, and I still showed up! Now you get to just walk away? Fuck you, Taylor. I’m going to Key West.”
“For real?”
Willa has no idea if her money will hold out the whole way or how she’s going to sail by herself for two months, but she is not going to give Taylor the satisfaction of seeing her uncertainty. Her voice is cold as she says, “It’s what Finley wanted.”
Taylor looks away first.
The boat sways as Taylor moves around the cabin, packing her clothes and gathering up her bedding. Willa sits on the deck as the breeze stirs the rigging of the sailboats in the basin, creating a soothing metallic symphony at odds with the boiling rage inside her. Finally, Taylor emerges as her mom comes down the dock with an empty cart. “You can have all my food and, um—I left Finley’s ashes.”
Willa nods, but she doesn’t speak.
“So,” Taylor says, scooping up her cat. “Be careful. Have fun.”
Again she doesn’t respond, and as she watches her former friend walk away, Willa hopes she’ll never have to see Taylor Nicholson again.
At nightfall Willa curls up in the cockpit with her flashlight and an actual chart book, plotting a route to Niagara Falls. Tomorrow she’ll sail as far as Ashtabula. The following day she’ll cross into Pennsylvania and spend the night in Erie. And on the day after that, she’ll make the crossing to Port Colborne in Canada. The days will be long, but Willa is already planning ahead. She’ll keep a bucket in the cockpit to use as a toilet. She can prepare all her meals in the morning to eat throughout the day. Same with water. If she rigs up a beach umbrella over the cockpit, she’ll have a little bit of shade. As long as the weather cooperates, she should be okay.
When she finishes, Willa turns her face skyward. The clouds are gone and the night sky is sprinkled with stars, and her memories roll back to the time she, Taylor, and Finley spent the night on the beach to watch a meteor shower. They treated it like an indoor slumber party, spreading a patchwork of blankets on the sand. Taylor made a playlist filled with songs about stars. They danced, toasted marshmallows over a little fire that Willa built, and watch the lights of freighters twinkle in the night like distant cities.
Around midnight, they lay back on the blankets to look up at the sky.
“Let’s play Constellation,” Finley suggested. When they were little, they’d try to identify as many constellations as they could and would race to locate the Big Dipper since that one was the easiest to find. Over time, the game morphed into making up constellations and an accompanying lore. “Willa, you start.”
“Okay, so that one there”—she pointed to a cluster of stars not far from Polaris—“is Louise. It was named in honor of a 1950s housewife who clubbed her husband to death with a croquet mallet after he left his socks on the floor and criticized her tuna casserole.”
Taylor laughed and Finley clapped with delight. “Now you, Taylor.”
“The one over there, beside Louise, is Stan the Magic Fish,” Taylor said. “Legend has it that Stan would grant three wishes to the fisherman who caught him. For centuries, men from all over the world attempted to catch him. Then, one day in the 1950s, a woman named Louise accomplished the impossible.”
Finley snorted, then covered her face with her hands as the three of them literally rolled around laughing. When Taylor caught her breath, she continued.
“No woman had ever tried to catch Stan, so naturally he was curious about her wishes. Louise’s first wish was for a million dollars. Her second wish was for a brand-new Cadillac. And her third wish was that she would get away with killing her husband. Once Stan granted the wishes, Louise filleted him and cooked him into a casserole.”
They laughed until their stomachs ached, and even afterward, one of them would think about Louise and start giggling, making them crack up all over again. Eventually, they fell into an easy silence, just watching the sky until the first meteor streaked past.
Now Willa scans the stars, searching for Louise and Stan the Magic Fish with a whirlwind of anger and sadness spinning inside her. She never imagined losing Taylor would actually feel like a loss, but now both Finley and Taylor are gone. Willa catches the trail of a shooting star, but it’s too late to make a wish. And she knows her wish will never come true.
Willa falls asleep in the cockpit and the morning brings a sky that’s nothing but blue. She’s slathering on a coat of sunscreen when Taylor comes walking down the dock with her duffel bag and her cat.
Taylor
ON THE DRIVE TO SANDUSKY, both her mom and Mrs. Donoghue assured Taylor that there was no shame in not wanting to continue the trip. Back at home, as her family sat around their backyard firepit, her dad said, “Not everyone enjoys sailing, Taylor.” But she saw the mix of pity and confusion etched on her brothers’ faces, like she’d been switched at birth and their real sister was out there somewhere, longing for water.
Taylor tried to convince herself that her parents were right, but it didn’t stop her from feeling like she’d failed Finley. Or feeling guilty that she’d held Willa to a different standard. Now Willa would be the one to experience everything on Finley’s list and Taylor would be the one missing out.
Her parents went to bed at ten, and Carter left to meet some friends at a bar downtown, leaving Taylor and Campbell alone. She poked at the fire, sending up sparks. “Did I do the right thing?”
Cam’s attention was focused on rolling a joint, his narrow fingers deftly shaping the paper and filling it from a plastic bag just like the one Willa had hidden in a tampon box in the bathroom cupboard on the boat. His shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “Did you?”
“It was a pretty horrible day and I think Willa will be okay without me.” But the excuse seemed anemic, even to Taylor. “She’s probably glad I’m gone.”
“Well, there’s your answer,” Cam said.
“So why do I still feel like shit?”
He slid his tongue along the rolling paper before speaking, then, “Because it’s the wrong answer.”
Taylor slumped in her chair. In the distance, their golden retriever rustled around in the peony bushes, bothering a feral cat that was trying to sleep. If Buddy didn’t end up with a slash on his muzzle, he’d be lucky. Now that she was home, Taylor wanted to stay there, safe and dry. “I have to go back, don’t I?”
Campbell nodded. “Yep.”
“Will you take me?”
This morning, as he drove her back to Cleveland, Taylor practiced apologies in her head. But Willa doesn’t look overjoyed to see her, and the words stick in Taylor’s throat. She forces them out. “I shouldn’t have left. I’m sorry.”
“I’m done doing all the work,” Willa says.
“No. I know. I promise I’ll do more.”
“Fine.”
“I made a playlist,” Taylor says as she steps aboard Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, and Willa actually smiles at the olive branch.
“Cool.”
The air between them feels cleaner, but Taylor knows their relationship is like a house of cards. One strong gust and it will collapse again.
For the next few hours, they settle into a routine, taking turns steering the boat and making meals. Taylor reads the sex scenes from Outlander aloud, and Willa laughs at her terrible attempt at a Scottish accent. Taylor discovered the first book of the series in her mom’s nightstand drawer when they were in middle school, and a good portion of their sex education came from the sex scenes between Jamie and Claire—which, Taylor thinks now, might not have been the w
orst way to learn about sex. None of them had put the lessons into practice—at least as far as Taylor knows—but Finley was the one who talked most about having sex.
“The real tragedy,” she lamented, during one after-school visit, “is that I’m going to die a virgin.”
Willa laughed and bopped her with a pillow. “The bright side is that your chances of being canonized are that much better. Someday they’ll be saying prayers to Saint Finley, patron saint of virgins.”
Finley giggled. “Yeah, but if I had to choose between sainthood and having sex with Campbell . . .”
The two of them cracked up laughing, but Taylor always felt a little uneasy when Finley talked about Cam. Taylor understood that her brother was attractive, but the door to Campbell was revolving. Finley deserved someone who loved her more than anyone else in the world.
A tear beads in the corner of her eye, and Taylor puts down the book. Finley is woven so tightly into the fabric of her life, and now it feels as if she’s coming unraveled. “I can drive for a while.”
“Are you sure?” Willa asks. “It’s still my turn for another hour.”
“I’m sure.”
From her seat beside the tiller, Taylor watches through the companionway as Willa stretches out on her bunk for a nap. She doesn’t seem very emotional about Finley’s death. Taylor has never seen her cry—not even at the funeral—but Willa has rarely ever given her feelings away. Maybe she mourns when no one is watching.
Sailing is infinitely easier without the rain. Willa gave her a compass heading, and Taylor does her best to keep the needle pointing in that direction. She tenses a little when she sees a freighter in the distance, but relaxes when she realizes it’s heading away from them. She adjusts the beach umbrella for a bit more shade, and it doesn’t take long before her eyes grow heavy—and then slide shut.
Taylor startles awake when she hears a hollow knocking sound on the hull of the boat and a male voice saying, “Hello! Is everyone aboard safe and well?”
Her eyes open on a small Coast Guard boat bobbing beside Whiskey Tango Foxtrot and two guardsmen wearing navy-blue uniforms with orange life vests and military boots. The older man has graying temples and a spot of pink sunburn on the top of his pale nose, while the dark-skinned younger man wears a navy ball cap and aviator-style sunglasses.
Her first panicked thought is that they’re about to be arrested for possession of marijuana, but above her head, the mainsail flaps softly in the breeze and the boat is going slowly nowhere.
Taylor’s next thought is that Willa is going to kill her.
Willa shoots a murderous glare at Taylor as she scrambles through the companionway, but her face transforms as she smiles at the coastguardsmen. Willa’s floral bikini catches the attention of the younger guardsman, who removes his sunglasses for a better look. His dark eyes are fixed on her as she says, “We’re okay. Everything’s fine. Taylor must have fallen asleep while I was off watch.”
“So, uh—where ya headed?” The threat of imminent danger past, his tone becomes less official, more flirty.
“We’re on our way to Key West,” Willa says. “But just as far as Ashtabula tonight.”
“Well, you’ll want to turn yourself that way”—the older guardsman points 180 degrees from the direction the boat is currently facing, and Taylor feels the heat of embarrassment creep into her cheeks—“and maybe get some rest tonight. It’s a long way to Key West.”
“We will,” she says.
“So, are you just passing through Lake Erie?” the young guardsman asks Willa.
“We started out in Sandusky.”
“We’re stationed out of Ashtabula.” He burrows his hand beneath his life vest and comes out with a business card and a pen. He writes something on the back of the card. “This is my personal number. If you want to hang out, hit me up.”
Willa looks legitimately surprised that a cute boy is flirting with her in the middle of Lake Erie, but Taylor kind of respects that he saw his shot and took it. He could do a lot worse than Willa Ryan. She sneaks a peek at the card. “Maybe I will . . . Edison.”
“And you are?”
“Willa. Oh . . . and Taylor.”
“Okay, Romeo,” the older guardsman says. “We need to get moving.”
“Wait!” Taylor realizes she and Willa haven’t done anything to document the trip yet. If Finley were with them, they’d have snapped dozens of pictures by now, but so far neither of Taylor’s cameras have left their cases. She swings down into the cabin, grabs the instant, and returns to the cockpit. “Can I get a picture?”
The Coast Guard boat bumps softly against the sailboat as the guardsmen pose with Willa, who makes an okay sign with her fingers. Taylor’s camera whirs as the photo slides out.
“Ladies.” Edison tips his cap at both of them. The dent around his close-cropped hair is weirdly endearing, and Taylor wonders if Willa will call him.
“It was a pleasure. Be safe. And stay alert.” As he follows the older guardsman back onto the Coast Guard boat, Edison grins at Willa and mouths, Call me.
The boat speeds off, and Willa takes over at the helm, putting the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot back on its proper course. She traps the tiller between her knees while she reapplies sunscreen to her exposed skin. Her lips are a tight line, as though she’s holding back everything she wants to say, and Taylor wishes she would just yell. Fighting would be a lot easier than trying to penetrate Willa’s frosty shield.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” Taylor says.
Willa holds out the bottle of sunscreen. “Your nose is a little pink.”
Taylor had hoped taking a picture would lighten the mood, but the fun they had this morning seems to have evaporated and Willa has gone back into bitch mode.
At her next turn at the helm, Taylor cues up the playlist she made together for the trip. Or, more accurately, threw together in the middle of the night because right now there is no music that feels good to Taylor’s soul. It hurts to remember the adventures that went along with her best friend’s favorite songs. She wants to believe that one day she will be okay, but that day seems so far away. Taylor touches the face of her phone and the music stops.
“Why’d you turn it off?” Willa comes out of the cabin with a bowl of white rice drizzled with Tiger sauce. Taylor never quite understood the appeal of plain rice, even with a splash of peppery sauce, until Finley quietly explained that rice is super cheap and stretches a long way on a budget. Taylor has never known an empty pantry—they even have a second refrigerator in the garage for beer and soda—so she wonders now if Willa actually likes rice.
“This playlist sucks,” Taylor says.
“Sounds fine to me.”
“It’s just a bunch of recycled stuff from other playlists,” she says. “It doesn’t have any meaning.”
Willa pokes at the rice with her fork. “Kind of like this trip.”
Taylor wants to be pissed, but Willa is not wrong. So far, this trip sucks too. “Kind of.”
“Without Finley, we’re adrift . . . some of us more than others obviously.”
At the note of humor in Willa’s voice, Taylor scratches her nose with her middle finger and they both laugh.
“I thought for sure you were pissed about that,” Taylor says.
“I was,” Willa admits. “But, I mean—the Coast Guard showing up is exactly the kind of thing Finley would have loved.”
“Totally.”
They fall silent, and Taylor thinks maybe this trip isn’t the kind that comes preloaded with a soundtrack. Maybe they have to find the music as they go.
Willa
ONE OF THE BIGGEST MYTHS about sailing is that it’s romantic. The ads in fashion magazines feature impossibly beautiful people draped across the glossy teak decks of old wooden sailboats, clad in jaunty nautical stripes or glamorous ball gowns. Holding ropes that lead to nowhere. But Ralph Lauren never mentions the bugs, the inescapable heat of the midday sun, or the long stretches of boredom—the kind Willa and T
aylor experience as they huddle beneath the beach umbrella, trying not to get fried as they make the crossing to Port Colborne.
They stopped in Ashtabula and Erie only long enough to eat, sleep, and shower. Willa didn’t call Edison, but she kept his card—just in case. So far, the trip hasn’t been much fun, but the next destination on Finley’s list is Niagara Falls, and Willa is excited to cross into another country. She traveled with the junior sailing team to various regattas around Ohio, but the closest she’s ever come to a real vacation is the long Memorial Day weekend she and her mom spent in Amish Country. They ate dinner at an all-you-can-eat buffet and slept just outside Millersburg in a no-star motel, where the icy air conditioner rattled at full blast all night. Even the narrow bunk of a thirty-year-old sailboat is an improvement over that bumpy bed.
Willa keeps her eye on the handheld GPS they borrowed from Taylor’s dad as they approach the invisible boundary line between the United States and Canada.
“We’re coming up on the border,” she calls to Taylor, who is sprawled out on her bunk, reading. “We should do something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Willa says. She researched the shellback ceremony that navy sailors perform when they cross the equator, but this boundary isn’t as significant—and they don’t have anyone to play King Neptune anyway. “I’ve just never been outside of the United States, and I want to commemorate it.”
No sound comes from the cabin as Taylor considers. Then, “I have an idea.”
Willa can hear her rustling around, but she doesn’t know what’s happening until Taylor comes up from below with two handmade signs, one that says I’M IN CANADA and another that says I’M IN THE UNITED STATES. She colored the letters to look like flags. “You can stop the boat halfway across the line and we’ll take a picture holding the signs.”
