Start Here

by Trish Doller

  “Are you inviting me to Ohio on the first date?”

  She laughs. “Maybe . . . although I might not be back there for a while.”

  “Why not?”

  “A few days ago I e-mailed Case Western to withdraw my enrollment so I can finish the Great Loop on my own.”

  “I can’t really say whether that’s a good idea or not, considering I’ve opted out of the whole college experience,” he says. “But what made you decide to withdraw?”

  “It kind of started at graduation when I realized there was nothing all that special about being valedictorian,” Willa says. “And then I got an e-mail from my assigned roommate. She was so excited and it hit me that I’m just . . . not . . . excited, I mean. I chose Case because studying business is practical and smart, but what I really want is to go to Kenyon and learn how to write.”

  “Is it too late to do that?”

  “For this year it is,” she says. “So I figured I would use the next year to finish doing the loop and write about my experiences and then reapply to Kenyon.”

  They fall into silence for a few beats; then Wyatt releases her hand. “Come ’ere.” He lifts his arm for her to move closer, and she does, scooting against his side with her head on his shoulder. “We’ve known each other for only . . . what? Twelve hours? But I already know you’ve got this.”

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Willa is aware that their relationship is progressing at an unnatural pace, but Wyatt is as familiar to her as brand-new, as comfortable as exciting. Sailing away from Corolla—away from him—is going to hurt.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars in my life.”

  Stars that aren’t usually visible to the eye are tiny pinpricks and the rest seem close enough to touch. A comet streaks across the sky, but this time Willa can’t form a wish fast enough because she wants so many things.

  Taylor

  IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME since Taylor has seen Willa without that tiny crease of worry between her eyebrows. But as Taylor makes a video of Willa sliding down a long sheet of plastic tarp toward the ocean, she’s laughing. She hits the water, and Wyatt scoops her up and tosses her into an oncoming wave. When Willa comes up, she fake punches him in the stomach and he leans down to kiss her nose.

  It was a good decision to stay in Carova for the night. They both needed a break from the boat, and it wasn’t as weird as Taylor expected to eat dinner alone with Wyatt’s parents—John and Beth, please—last night. Over plates of shrimp Alfredo, they’d asked Taylor a ton of questions about the trip, and after dinner they drove down the beach to Corolla for ice cream. They reminded her of her own parents, which made Taylor feel both at home and a little homesick.

  Now, John has set up a gas grill loaded with ribs and barbecued chicken, which he mops with homemade sauce. Beth’s filled a folding table with potluck side dishes from the neighbors—both local and summer people—who have congregated in lawn chairs and beach loungers. They dip into giant coolers stocked with beer and soda, and their laughter drifts on the air. The younger kids are building sandcastles and looking for shells, while the teenagers are gathered along the edges of a homemade Slip ’N Slide.

  “Seeing Wyatt with a girl is kind of weird,” says Corinne, a summer girl who has been coming with her family to Carova Beach from New Mexico for most of her life. Her blond hair hangs over her shoulders in two long braids.

  “Really?” Taylor says.

  Heidi, one of the local girls, joins the conversation, passing her red party cup to Corinne, who takes a sniff, then drinks. “I think all of us have had a crush on him at some point,” Heidi says. “He’s such a sweetheart—”

  “And hot,” Corinne adds.

  Heidi nods in agreement. “Everyone is so spread out around here that it’s not easy to date, but Wyatt has always been kind of oblivious. He’s always been way more into surfing than girls.”

  Corinne laughs as they watch him drop a kiss on the top of Willa’s head. “Apparently not anymore.”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Taylor says.

  “Ouch.” Heidi shakes her head sadly. “Wyatt’s initiation into the summer-vacation heartbreak club is going to be brutal.”

  Willa runs over, her curls dripping wet and sand stuck to the side of her forehead. Taylor wants to warn her to keep her heart safe, to protect her from getting hurt again. Saying goodbye to Vanessa was hard enough and Taylor hadn’t been in over her head. But Willa’s stress is completely erased. She’s happy. “Hand over the cell phone, Nicholson,” she says. “It’s your turn to slide.”

  As she walks to the head of the Slip ’N Slide, Taylor wonders how they never thought to do this on Cedar Point Beach. Finley would have loved this. Sadness punches the tender place beneath her rib cage, but the pain of missing her best friend doesn’t feel quite so bottomless anymore. But before she can feel guilty about that, Wyatt’s friend Shaun jogs toward her, dumping biodegradable soap-water onto the plastic, making the surface more slick. When he reaches Taylor, he leans in and softly chants her name, the volume building until everyone is shouting. “Tay-lor! Tay-lor! Tay-lor!”

  She kisses her knuckles and fist-bumps the sky. Takes a running start. Then launches herself onto her stomach, zooming face-first into the salty sea.

  Later, following an afternoon of learning—well, trying—to surf and eating plates of barbecue, Taylor, Willa, and all of Wyatt’s friends are gathered downwind from the adults, drinking stealth beers and sharing the weed from Willa’s stash. Taylor’s hair is crunchy from the salt water and her bikini bottoms itch with sand, but she feels mellow enough to try a hit. She watches Willa first, then pinches the joint between her fingers.

  “Just hold it in your lungs, if you can,” Corinne says. “You might cough at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

  The sweet smoke tickles her throat and Taylor coughs a little, but no one makes fun of her. She passes the joint to Heidi, who says, “You two are officially invited to all our parties, forever.”

  Taylor laughs. “But only if we bring the weed?”

  “I mean, no,” Heidi says. “But also yes?”

  “I’m trying to talk Willa into coming back up here after she finishes her trip,” Wyatt says. “Or maybe for the winter.”

  “What, like during Christmas break?” Taylor asks.

  “No,” Willa says. “I, um—I haven’t had a chance to mention it yet, but I’m not going to Case. I’m going to take a year to finish the Great Loop on my own.”

  Taylor’s anger doesn’t even know where to begin with all this new information. Withdrawing from college? Finishing the Great Loop? Or the fact that the first person Willa told was a boy she met yesterday. Sharing the truth about her feelings for Finley with Willa was deliberate—Willa hadn’t been a default confidante—so it hurts that Willa would make such a huge decision without saying anything at all. “When did you do this?”

  “Norfolk.”

  “So you had lots of chances to tell me. You just didn’t,” Taylor says. “Not even during your emotional breakdown in the middle of the ICW.”

  Willa’s stare is hard, even as her eyes brim with tears, and Taylor instantly regrets every single word. Not only because she’s torn Willa down in front of a group of friends—again—but because Taylor violated the “what happens on the boat stays on the boat” agreement they made outside Norfolk. Taylor is still free to come out to her parents whenever she sees fit, while Willa’s private business is out in the open for everyone to wonder about.

  “I really thought you’d changed,” Willa says, getting to her feet. She dusts the sand off her hands like she’s done with this conversation. Done with Taylor. “I thought we were actually starting to be friends, but you’re still the same old leopard with the same old spots. Fuck you.”

  All this time, Taylor had been worried that one gust of wind would knock down their house-of-cards friendship. Instead, she blew it over herself like the big bad wolf.

  Around them, confu
sed glances bounce back and forth, and an awkward silence falls over the group. No one moves as Willa stalks up the beach toward the house, until Wyatt scrambles to his feet and chases after her. Leaving Taylor to think maybe Willa chose to tell the right person after all.

  Taylor wipes her tears with the back of her hand, sniffling as she pushes up from the blanket. “I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

  “Stay here,” Corinne says. “Wyatt’s got this.”

  Heidi nods in agreement. “Willa’s your best friend, right? She’ll get over it.”

  The lump in Taylor’s throat is lodged so tightly that she can’t tell Heidi that she’s already lost her best friend. Or that she doesn’t want to lose the only other person who knows how that feels. She wouldn’t blame Willa for hating her. She wouldn’t even blame her if she packed up her suitcase and left Taylor behind. Gnawing her lower lip, Taylor glances back at the house, but Heidi tugs her hand.

  “Taylor, sit. Let Willa cool off a little bit first.”

  Pushing against the instinct to go apologize, Taylor sits. And when Corrine hands her the charred stub of the last joint, Taylor takes the hit. She laughs when everyone laughs at something Shaun says, but her mind is elsewhere. Taylor doesn’t want to be the crappy friend anymore, but she doesn’t know how to undo the damage she’s done.

  Everyone is getting ready to go watch the fireworks when Willa and Wyatt return. They’re holding hands and Willa is smiling, which Taylor takes as a good sign.

  “Hey, um—” she begins.

  “I just want to have fun tonight,” Willa interrupts, her words as cold and sharp as the icicles that dangle from the roof of the Nicholsons’ garage in the winter. Taylor’s face heats at the understanding that fun does not include her. She gets into a skiff with Shaun and Corinne and someone’s parents, and as they caravan down the sound to Corolla, Willa feels so far away. Too far away. And as the first rocket bursts into bloom in the fading daylight, Taylor is certain this is the worst Fourth of July ever.

  Taylor

  “SO, THIS IS HOW IT’S going to go,” Willa says as she stuffs clothes into her duffel bag. Even if Taylor were unable to hear the anger in her voice, she can see it in the way Willa packs. Her hairbrush clatters against a bottle of shampoo, and nothing is neatly folded. “We get to Key West as fast as we can. No more clues. No more pretending that we’re ever going to be friends. We finish this and get on with our lives.”

  Taylor doesn’t know what to say because how do you argue with someone who has already made up her mind? So she says what Willa wants to hear.

  “Fine.”

  Willa

  NOT LONG AFTER THEY MOTORED away from the marina where they’d first met Wyatt, the radio chatter began. A tropical depression had developed off the coast of Africa and was projected to build into a major hurricane as it traveled across the southwestern Atlantic. Dorian—the fourth named storm of the season—was predicted to make landfall somewhere around Cocoa Beach.

  “Should we be worried about that?” Taylor asked, her mouth full of crunchy sour cream and onion chips. The noise dragged up Willa’s spine and she clenched her teeth against it.

  “By the time we get to Florida, the storm will be long gone,” she said, then put in her earbuds, blocking out the sound. Blocking out Taylor.

  Taylor tried to apologize that morning, but Willa was still too angry to listen. Ever since, they’ve been skirting around each other in the cabin, and when they stop to refuel, do laundry, or buy groceries, they split up until it’s time to start moving again. As though they’re taking separate trips aboard the same boat. They have no lasting memories of South Carolina. No adventures. No Taco Sundays. The silence has grown, brick by brick, into a solid wall. Willa knows this is not what Finley had imagined, but maybe she and Taylor just aren’t meant to be friends.

  Now, a third of the way through Georgia, Willa’s phone vibrates on the cockpit bench beside her. Wyatt gave her one of his old smartphones, and even with a spiderweb crack in the corner of the glass, it’s still nicer than the one she threw in Lake Erie. She’s been able to take pictures and text them to him—and seeing his dimples on the lock screen makes her smile every time. His text says: Are you listening to the weather right now?

  Not at the moment.

  Where are you?

  Middle of nowhere, Georgia. Population: 2.

  Across the cockpit, Taylor’s phone starts blowing up with incoming texts. Willa glances up in time to see Taylor’s mouth fall open. Her eyes are huge and round and scared. “Captain Norm says the tropical storm made a sharp swing north.”

  Dorian has been upgraded to a cat 3, expected to hit between Savannah and Charleston. Seriously, Willa, where are you?

  Willa catapults through the companionway and cranks up the volume on the radio.

  “. . . maximum sustained winds have increased to near 115 miles per hour with higher gusts. Little change in strength is expected before the center reaches the coast, then weakening after the center moves inland. Hurricane-force winds extend outward up to twenty-five miles from the center and tropical-storm-force winds extend outward up to one hundred miles . . .”

  The forecast makes it official. Dorian is heading toward land, and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is in its path. As Willa’s internal organs rush headlong into panic mode, her brain freezes. She’s always known a hurricane was possible, but she figured it wasn’t probable. She has no survival plan for this.

  “The governor of South Carolina has issued a mandatory evacuation order for coastal areas,” Taylor says. “And the governor of Georgia is recommending the same. Willa . . . what are we going to do?”

  Returning to Savannah would be putting themselves directly in Dorian’s path. They could try to make it to Brunswick, but they’ve been fighting gusty winds and a strong current all day—and there are only a few hours before dark.

  “Norm wants to know our exact location,” Taylor continues.

  Willa presses the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to wake up her brain. They need to find a safe place. But where? She’d meant her text as a joke, but it’s also terribly true. With sparsely populated barrier islands to the east and swamps to the west, they are literally in the middle of nowhere.

  “Willa!”

  Taylor’s shout jolts her back to reality. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  Willa’s hand is shaking as she takes the phone. “I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do.”

  “Start by taking a deep breath.” The steady deepness of Captain Norm’s voice is an oasis of calm. “Now, tell me where you are.”

  “We’ve just reached the north end of Sapelo Island, but we’re still about a day out from Brunswick. Maybe more with the current.”

  “Well . . .” Norm is quiet for a beat. “There’s no shortage of little creeks around those parts, so grab your chart book and find yourself a safe place to tie up. A floating dock would be ideal—especially if you get a tidal surge—and if you can take shelter on land, do that. Otherwise, button up and say inside unless the boat is sinking.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can,” he says. “How many dock lines ya got?”

  “Too many.”

  Norm’s deep chuckle is another shot of calm. “Good. You’ll probably want to use about eight. And even at a dock, you should put out an anchor.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t forget to strip the sails, and you’ll wanna tie down anything that might blow away.”

  “Okay.”

  “Once you’ve settled on a spot, text the coordinates to your family and to me,” Norm says. The idea that these might be her last-known whereabouts punches a giant hole in her wobbly confidence. She draws in another deep breath, but it isn’t enough to still the erratic beat of her heart.

  “What if—” she ventures, but he cuts her off.

  “Don’t even let your mind go there,” he says. “Focus on what needs doing
and do it.”

  “Okay.”

  She disconnects, then sends a quick text to Wyatt. We’re looking for shelter around Sapelo Island. I’ll let you know when we’ve found a place.

  Wish you were here.

  Me too. But I’ll see you again soon.

  Counting on it, so stay safe.

  She smiles at the little red crab that has become his signature at the end of every text conversation. They haven’t reached heart emoji status yet, but crab emoji status might actually be better. Willa tucks her phone in the pocket of her weather jacket and opens the chart book.

  On deck, Taylor has the tiller trapped between her knees as her thumbs fly over the keyboard of her phone. Behind her, the wind ripples across the water and her hair is tied up in a knot to keep it from blowing in her face.

  “Would you mind driving while I take off the sails?” Willa asks.

  “Yeah, of course. Which way are we headed?”

  “Inland. There’s a shrimp dock where we might be able to tie up.”

  Willa removes the jib and mainsail, folding them into their canvas bags and stacking them in the v-berth. She removes the boom and lashes it to the deck. She ties extra lines around their bikes so they won’t blow away and brings the gas cans into the cockpit. Down in the cabin, Willa rinses the dishes and stows away anything that could become a projectile in a storm, including the Finley mermaid and Taylor’s snow globes. She puts fresh batteries in the flashlight.

  “We’re coming up on the shrimp docks,” Taylor calls. “It looks like most of them are taken by shrimp boats.”

  There are a few shrimpers on deck here and there, prepping the boats for the coming storm. They pause to stare as the girls motor past, their expressions curious or surprised or interested in a way that makes Willa feel naked. She knows she shouldn’t assume the worst about strangers, but there’s nothing comforting about docking here.

  “I don’t like this,” Taylor says, her voice low. “I mean, I’m already worried about the hurricane.”