by Trish Doller
The line shuffles forward, and she catches sight of Vanessa walking toward the club. Her pale skin has turned pink in the neon glow of the Donut Shop lights, and Taylor’s fingers curl into her palms to keep from pulling Vanessa in line with them. But Taylor is still trying to find a place for everything in her head—and in her heart. She will always love Finley, but long days on the water have given her a lot of time to think. She’s never used any specific words for herself. She loved Finley. She loved Brady. Now Taylor feels wings fluttering in her chest when she thinks about Vanessa. She’s okay with being bisexual, but she’s not ready for Willa to know just yet.
They pass through a cloud from the smokers gathered outside the front door and enter the club. The first floor is an actual storefront bakery/bar, but a narrow stairway leads down into the redbrick basement. Ahead, there’s a small soundstage with a shimmering red and pink backdrop and speaker stacks at each corner. Behind are a couple of old leather couches and a few tables and chairs, but the rest is an open space for dancing. The warm-up band is doing their sound check.
“I’m going to the mosh pit,” Taylor says. “Do you want to come?”
“I think I’ll just stay here, if that’s okay with you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go!” Willa motions Taylor away. “Have fun!”
She digs her phone from the front pocket of her skirt and hands it to Willa. “It’s safer with you.”
Taylor crosses the room and stands near the front of the stage. A few people have already started to congregate, staking their territory for when Sister Kismet comes on later. She feels a little awkward standing alone, until someone shoulder-bumps her and Vanessa says, “Hey, you.”
Her bangs are caught back in a sparkly clip and she’s wearing a sleeveless yellow dress with a black Peter Pan collar and black over-the-knee socks. Taylor’s pulse ratchets up a notch as she smiles. “Hey back.”
“It’s so good to see you.”
“You too.”
Vanessa’s eyebrows hitch up. “Yeah?”
“Definitely.” Taylor smiles. “Yeah.”
Vanessa opens her mouth to say something, but she is cut off when the lead singer of the opening band shouts, “Hello, New York! We are the Tempura Shrimps!” and the band launches into their first song.
Taylor has never heard of the Tempura Shrimps, but their sound is catchy and fun for dancing. The music is too loud for talking, too loud even for sustained shouting, but she and Vanessa shimmy, bounce, and clap along through the entire set. Taylor’s T-shirt is soaked with sweat, but she can’t remember the last time she had this much fun at a show. Going to concerts with Finley and Willa was always a good time, but music was never their obsession.
“Let’s go upstairs and get a drink,” Vanessa suggests, pulling her damp dress away from her body.
“I don’t want to lose our spot,” Taylor says.
“We’ll get it back. C’mon.”
Taylor sees Willa perched on the arm of one of the leather couches, nodding as a guy talks at her. She doesn’t look panicked, just bored, so Taylor opts not to rescue her. Only fair, all things considered. Instead, she follows Vanessa up the stairs.
Willa
A GUY WEARING A BLACK T-shirt with a floral chest pocket cornered Willa, introduced himself as Jonathen—“with an e”—and launched into a no-reply-necessary monologue about how he’s trying to launch his own line of homemade, organic men’s grooming products.
“I make my own mustache wax using beeswax from my friend’s hive,” he says, twirling the skinny tip of his hipster villain mustache. “Want to touch it?”
“I, um—” From the corner of her eye, Willa catches sight of Taylor sneaking up the stairs and accepts this as her punishment for abandoning her at the frat party. “Not really. No.”
“No problem.” Jonathen shrugs it off. “You know, I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what you are. Am I picking up a little African American maybe? Latina?” He waves his hand in front of her face, trying to conjure the answer without Willa even speaking.
She’s pretty sure Jonathen “with an e” isn’t actively trying to be offensive or creepy, but Willa has no desire to share her family history with a stranger she’ll never see again, especially since he’s too old to be hitting on her. So she smiles and shrugs. “Any or all of the above, I guess.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m digging it. Very sexy.”
Gross.
“You know, I need to use the ladies’ room,” Willa says. “It’s upstairs, right?”
“I’ll save your seat,” he calls after her.
She waves. “Sure. Thanks.”
At the top of the stairs, she spots Campbell in the doorway, handing his ID to the bouncer. Willa’s mouth spreads into a smile, and just as she’s about to weave her way through the crowd, a blond girl slides her arms around Cam’s waist from behind. He twists at the torso and his face lights up. When she tilts her chin, he lowers his head to drop a kiss on her lips.
Willa thinks her eyes must be playing tricks on her. This must be a guy who resembles Cam. She blinks, but the scene doesn’t change. He is still here, at the same bar, in the same city, with a girl who is not her. She feels like a dropped glass, razor sharp and shattered.
“Shit.” The need to flee claws inside her chest and she looks around wildly for an escape. She can’t look at Campbell. Can’t speak to him. Or else she might really break.
Willa ducks down the hallway leading to the bathrooms and tugs open the door to the ladies’ room, where a couple of girls are pressed against the graffitied wall, kissing. It’s not desperate, no-coming-up-for-air making out, but tender kisses punctuated with smiles and inaudible words. The night takes an even more bizarre turn when Willa recognizes the blond French braid, the black denim skirt.
She stands there for a moment, her jaw somewhere in the vicinity of her shoes. Why is this something she doesn’t know about Taylor? Has she always liked girls? Did Finley know? Willa stands until she realizes that she is invading their privacy, such that it is. Thrown for a loop by both Nicholsons, Willa slips quietly out of the restroom, walks down the hall, and shoulders her way out into the street. She takes Taylor’s phone from her purse and texts Campbell.
It’s Willa. I have Taylor’s phone. Tell her I’m going back to the boat.
Where are you?
Just tell her.
As Willa rounds the corner toward the subway station, the air feels cooler than when they left the boat and clouds have filled in overhead, obscuring the stars. The wind tugs at her skirt and a soda cup rolls like a tumbleweed down the sidewalk. The first drops of rain fall heavy and she starts to run. She’s not used to running in heels, so she grips the railing as she hurries down the steps to the subway.
Willa is drenched by the time she’s rowed the dinghy out to Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. The rain is cold and relentless, the wind howling, and one of the boats has come free from its mooring and drifts dangerously close to the shore. Willa ties a double knot in the rope connecting the dinghy to the sailboat, then unlocks the cabin. Pumpkin jumps down off Taylor’s bunk and threads herself through Willa’s legs. Willa reaches down and strokes the cat’s back, taking comfort in the fact that she’s not completely alone. “It’s you and me tonight, Pumpkin.”
Once she’s changed out of her wet clothes and donned her weather gear, she texts Campbell again.
The weather has gotten really bad. Tell Taylor she should not come back to the boat tonight.
A few seconds later, the phone rings.
“Hey, what’s going on?” The concern in Cam’s voice would make her cry if she had time for tears.
“One of the boats has broken away from the mooring and I’m afraid we’ll do the same,” she says. “It’s grown too windy for me to row back for Taylor and I don’t want to leave the boat, so tell her to find a place to spend the night.”
“I’ll come help you.”
“There’s nothing you can do,”
Willa says. You can’t help me. You can’t make me want you, then just walk away. You can’t prove me right about you. I don’t want to be right. She wishes she had the nerve to say those things out loud, to shout them at him, but instead she says, “I got this.”
In the background of Campbell’s silence she can hear the distant sound of the band and people talking and laughing. Then, finally, he says, “Radio the Coast Guard if you need help.”
She disconnects the call, steps out into the cockpit, and starts the engine. As Willa checks the anchor line, the wind rattles the rigging, but tonight it’s less like music and more like a battle cry. The line to the mooring is secure, but as she watches the untethered sailboat swing in a wide arc, narrowly missing another boat, she knows there are no guarantees in sailing. She knows to expect the worst.
Even within the relatively protected water of the pier, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot bobs and pitches on the waves, and the wind sends all the boats in slow 360s around their moorings. Willa worries that the drifting boat will crash against the pier, but her priority is making sure her own boat stays safe. She spends the entire night standing watch, keeping the engine running in case she needs to cut the mooring line and motor away. She takes shelter from the weather only in tiny increments, only to get more coffee.
The rain stops at around four in the morning.
The wind takes another hour to taper off.
By the time the sun rises, the only sign of the storm is the loose boat, thumping against the pier. Willa kills the engine, peels off her wet gear, and falls into her bunk. She’s nearly unconscious when Taylor’s phone vibrates with an incoming text. We’re on our way.
Willa groans. She just wants to sleep, but now she has to bail the rainwater from the dinghy and row ashore. As she pulls the oars through the water, she can see them—Taylor, Campbell, and Campbell’s date—and Willa is tempted to row back to the boat, motor out of New York, and leave the Nicholsons standing right where they are. Instead, she tosses a line to Cam and climbs out of the dinghy.
“The weather radar was nearly purple last night!” Taylor throws her arms around Willa. “You . . . you are a big damn hero!”
She doesn’t know how to respond to this strange new Taylor. Or how to act in front of Campbell and the girl clutching his hand. Willa has never believed that heartbreak is a physical phenomenon, but now, as she stands in the place where her head and her heart intersect, the pain is breathtakingly real. She masks it with a joke. “Throwing myself directly in the path of an oncoming thunderstorm was the only way I could get rid of Jonathen with an e.”
Taylor laughs. “You mean Mr. Ironic Mustache?”
“There was no irony there,” Willa says. “Did you find a place to stay, or did you party all night?”
“We shared a room at a hostel near the Donut Shop.” Taylor gestures at Campbell and the girl, forcing Willa to acknowledge them.
“This is Kaia,” he says. “We went to Cornell together.”
He is either completely oblivious or intentionally cruel. Either way, Willa doesn’t want to know this girl’s name. She doesn’t want to know anything about her. She wishes she could rewind time and stop herself from kissing Campbell Nicholson at that fraternity party, but the only direction she can go now is forward. Willa curls her hands into fists to keep from slapping the smug little grin from his face, then turns to Taylor. “So, what are we doing today?”
“We were thinking about getting something to eat and then—”
Willa cuts her off. “You should do that. I’m going to crash for a couple of hours and maybe hit up some thrift stores.”
In the two days down from Catskill, they discussed all the things they could do in New York. Explore Central Park. Take an Alexander Hamilton tour of the city. Visit museums and art galleries. Ride the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. Willa still wants to do some of these things—but absolutely not with Campbell and Kaia.
Confusion etches a line in the gap between Taylor’s eyebrows. “I thought we—”
“I was awake all night,” Willa says. “So you just go do your thing and I’ll do mine.”
Taylor
THIS IS A WATERSHED MOMENT for Taylor Nicholson. She can choose to spend the day in New York City with her brother and a girl whose presence is causing Willa pain—or not. The fearless girl who defeated a thunderstorm is lost inside someone small and diminished, and Taylor is embarrassed that her brother is responsible for it.
“I can upload some pictures while you sleep,” she says. “Then we’ll do stuff together, okay?” Taylor turns to Cam. “I’m staying with Willa.”
He shrugs. “We’re going to find early brunch.”
As he leaves with Kaia in tow, Taylor rolls her eyes and calls after him, “Early brunch is breakfast, you ass.”
She’d hoped to make Willa laugh, but Willa just stands there, her expression hollow, as Campbell walks away.
“I don’t think he means to be cruel,” Taylor offers, even though she knows her words are unhelpful. “He’s just—”
“Let’s not do this now.”
Taylor does the rowing as they return to the sailboat. She makes them bagels with cream cheese for breakfast, which they eat in silence. The way Willa stares into the middle distance is unsettling, but there is nothing Taylor can say—nothing she thinks Willa will want to hear—that will make her feel better. Willa curls up on her bunk, and Taylor uploads the photos from the concert that she took with Vanessa’s phone. She smiles as she scrolls through images of the Donut Shop, of her all-time favorite band, and especially of Vanessa. Taylor feels guilty, but last night was one of the best nights of her life. Her feelings for Vanessa make Taylor’s sexuality feel more solid. She has a word for it now that she’s never used before.
Her parents wouldn’t freak out if they knew. Taylor’s dad has so much chill that he’d say he loves her no matter who she loves. And her mom would probably turn into the LGBT version of a soccer mom—in a good way. Taylor knows she’s lucky, and it’s a comfort to know that when she’s ready to come out to them, she won’t have to fear for her safety. But she’s not ready yet. She’s still adjusting to the thrill of being able to fantasize about kissing a girl who actually wants to kiss her back.
Willa seems a little more cheerful as she rummages through the racks at a thrift shop only a few blocks from the pier. She slips her arms into a raspberry-colored faux-fur jacket. Taylor would look like an overgrown Muppet wearing something so fluffy, but Willa can pull it off. Taylor snaps a picture with her instant. “That’s super adorable. You should buy it.”
Willa glances at the price tag and gnaws her lower lip. “It’s more than I’d normally spend.”
“Okay, but where will you find something this cute in Ohio? And don’t forget how cold it gets in Cleveland during the winter.”
Willa smiles. “I do kinda love it.”
“Cam will take it back home for you,” Taylor says, and Willa crinkles her nose at the mention of his name. “I know, but it’s the least he can do after being such a dick.”
“Thanks,” Willa says quietly, as she drapes the coat over her arm and moves on to browse the next rack. “For spending the day with me, I mean. And adding some thrift shops to the itinerary.”
Taylor had planned the day while Willa was sleeping, so Willa has no idea where they’re going next. Taylor likes being the expert for a change.
They visit three more thrifts, where she watches as Willa ferrets out a pair of skinny black pants, a gray mohair cardigan, and a red velvet slip dress that would look awesome with black ankle boots. In the last shop, Taylor finds a Rough Trade T-shirt. As they wait their turn at the cash register, she says, “You have the coolest fashion sense. When did that even happen? How did I not notice?”
“We had a jeans day in sixth grade and I wore a T-shirt that my mom bought at the Goodwill,” Willa says. “When I got to school, Madelyn Davies told me it used to be her shirt and pointed out a little mustard stain on the sleeve to prove it. S
he and her friends spent the rest of the day laughing at me.”
Taylor’s whole body flushes with shame for having ever made fun of Willa, for calling her trailer trash. This new knowledge doesn’t excuse the way she behaved back then, but the middle of a thrift store doesn’t feel like the right place to apologize. Or maybe she’s too embarrassed to do it.
“Madelyn Davies is the worst,” Taylor says instead.
Willa laughs. “Right? But that’s not really the point. I hated the way people talked about me—as though being poor is the most awful thing you can be—so I decided to give them something else to talk about. If I always looked great and my clothes were on-point, they couldn’t laugh anymore.”
“A very good strategy,” says the white-haired lady behind the cash register. She’s rocking a buzz cut with red Harry Potter–style glasses and a giant silver stag’s head pendant. She reminds Taylor of her maternal grandma, whose favorite saying is from a Dylan Thomas poem that goes “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Grandma drives a Corvette convertible and takes her miniature schnauzer nearly everywhere she goes, even to places where no dogs are allowed.
“You wear this dress, darling,” the shop lady says to Willa. “And I guarantee no one will be laughing.”
“Thank you.” Willa’s cheeks dimple as she smiles, then turns to Taylor. “So, what’s for lunch?”
“It’s Sunday, so . . .”
“Please say tacos, please say tacos, please say tacos.”
Taylor laughs as they head to the door with their purchases. “I’m thinking . . . tacos.”
“It’s like you read my mind.”
They find a hole-in-the-wall taqueria selling dollar tacos—crunchy chicken for Taylor, soft al pastor for Willa—which they eat while walking up Broadway. Taylor takes pictures of the Empire State Building and the triangle-shaped Flatiron. They snap a touristy selfie in Times Square, then window-shop their way along Seventh Avenue to Central Park. They pass a line of horse-drawn carriages waiting for fares and take pictures with a white horse named Rosie. Inside the park, Taylor sinks down on the grass beneath the shade of a leafy tree and kicks off her shoes. “My feet are killing me. I’m definitely taking my bike to Kent so I don’t have to walk across campus.”
