Start Here

by Trish Doller

  “Fuck you, Dorian!” she screams, heaving the coiled rope.

  This time Taylor catches it.

  Back inside the cabin, they collapse on their bunks, still wearing their weather jackets. It doesn’t matter that the cushions are wet because they could not possibly be any more soaked than they are right now.

  “. . . the center of Dorian,” the weather forecaster says, “will approach the coasts of South Carolina and Georgia later today . . .”

  This time Willa is too exhausted to scream. She just lifts her arm up off the bunk and extends her middle finger at the radio.

  The water returns first, flooding the sound and all the little creeks, lapping at the windows on the low side of the boat. Making it feel like they’re underwater. Like they’re sinking. Willa waits for the boat to right itself, but it doesn’t happen.

  We should be floating. Why aren’t we floating?

  “Something’s wrong,” she says, moving as fast as she can manage to the companionway. She shoves open the hatch and sticks her head out into the battering rain. Water is spilling over the low side of the boat, trickling into the cockpit. Her mind shifts into overdrive, listing the things they’ll need for a quick getaway and assessing where they’d find shelter if the boat sinks. We might be able to pry the plywood off one of the ticket office windows and smash the glass, Willa thinks, but what if we can’t? Then what?

  “The water is coming up over the low side,” she says, closing the hatch. “If the cockpit fills, the boat won’t float and the flood water will sink us. We may have to consider abandoning ship.”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  “I don’t know,” Willa says. “But we should pack ditch bags just in case. Take only what you can’t live without.”

  As Willa packs her duffel with the flashlight, a change of clothes, her wallet, and Wyatt’s GET A LITTLE WILD T-shirt, she touches the faded Campbell drawing. “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” Willa doesn’t feel fierce at all. She feels helpless and utterly swamped with sorrow at the thought of losing the boat. Taylor is crying as they climb back into the v-berth with the VHF and the cat.

  “Ten hours into this trip, I wanted to go home,” Taylor says. “But now this boat feels like home. It can’t end like this.”

  Willa puts her arms around her friend, hugging her tight. If she had any words of comfort, she’d offer them, but she doesn’t know what to say. Instead they cling to each other as the forecaster announces that Hurricane Dorian has made landfall at Hilton Head, South Carolina. Flying debris crashes against the hull. Lightning illuminates the cabin as bright as daylight. Less than a second later, thunder booms, shaking the boat. The rain sounds like machine-gun fire. Like they’re caught in the middle of a war without any weapons of their own. Willa closes her eyes and hopes that dying won’t hurt too much . . . and that’s when she feels the boat begin to rise.

  The sky is overcast as Willa slides back the companionway hatch, but there is a bright spot where the sun is hidden behind the clouds. The water is muddy, like coffee with cream, and the trees along the shoreline are all leaning in the same direction. A car in the ferry lot has been stabbed through the windshield by a tree branch. And the wind indicator at the top of the mast has blown away. But the rain has passed and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is still caught in its web of dock lines. Still floating.

  “We made it,” Taylor says as they step out into the cockpit. Sodden leaves are wedged in every nook and cranny, and there is sand packed into even the smallest cracks. “We survived a hurricane.”

  Willa sits down to steady herself as tears of relief track down her cheeks, and Taylor goes back into the cabin for a moment and returns with the pirate flag. She runs it up into the rigging, where it flutters in the breeze. NO QUARTER. NO SURRENDER.

  “I’m going to call Captain Norm and my parents,” Taylor says. “Do you want me to have them pass a message to your mom?”

  “No,” she says, taking her phone from the pocket of her jacket. “I need to do this myself.”

  Taylor walks out onto the bow to give Willa some privacy.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Willa. Oh God. Willa.” The tears in her mother’s voice make her cry harder. “I’ve been worried sick and I’m furious with you, but right now I have never been happier to hear your voice. Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry I threw my phone in the lake,” Willa says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry I judged you and demanded you change your life because I didn’t like your choices. I’m just . . . so sorry.”

  “Where are you right now? Are you in a safe place?”

  “We’re still tied to the ferry dock at Sapelo Island in Georgia,” Willa says. “But we’ll be heading for Brunswick tomorrow morning. We got thumped pretty hard by the outer bands of the hurricane, but the boat is fine. Taylor and I are fine.”

  “Good. Now . . .” The strength has returned to her mom’s voice, and Willa braces for a different kind of storm. “Don’t you ever ignore me like that again.”

  “I promise.”

  “From now until you reach Key West, I expect regular updates. From you, not your Instagram.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And another thing . . .” In the pause that follows, Willa racks her brain to think of what else she’s done wrong, but she draws a blank. “I broke up with Steve and on Monday morning I start as a teller at Civista Bank.”

  “Wait . . . what?”

  “You were out of line, but you were also not wrong,” her mom says. “My choices affected you in ways you didn’t deserve. I should have been your role model, not the other way around, and I’m sorry for that.”

  “Hey, Mom? I love you, do you love me?”

  “Yes, I love you, do you love me?” her mom replies, and Willa’s smile reaches all the way down to her heart.

  As her mom fills in the details about how Mrs. Donoghue helped her get the job and let her borrow a pantsuit for the interview, Willa thinks about all the unbelievable things that have happened in the past twenty-four hours and how this—her mother—might be the most unbelievable thing of all.

  Taylor

  WILLA STANDS ON THE BOW as Taylor drives Whiskey Tango Foxtrot toward a slip in the marina. She’s never actually done this before—that’s always been Willa’s job—but if the boat can survive a hurricane, it can survive Taylor learning to dock. She tries to envision herself gliding neatly into the dock, hoping that if she can imagine it, she can do it. In reality, Taylor turns the tiller too soon, bumps the piling, and kind of bounces into the slip. She feels like she might die of embarrassment, but Willa gives her a thumbs-up. “You did it!”

  “That sucked.”

  “Well, yeah,” Willa says as she positions a fender between the boat and the dock. “But the next time you’ll do it better, so who cares?”

  Their original plan had been to spend a single night in Brunswick and keep moving, but as they carry the wet cushions out into the sun, it’s clear they’re going to need more time. The boat is disgusting, they haven’t bathed in three days, and they’re in desperate need of some time on dry land. Taylor is tempted to suggest they blow off the work and do something fun first, but their habits are ingrained now. They clean the boat, empty the toilet, put the sails back on, and make a shopping list. When Taylor finally gets to take a shower, it’s well earned and quite possibly the best shower of her life.

  “I think I want to cut my hair,” she says as they ride their bikes toward downtown Brunswick. Over the past two months it has gotten noticeably longer, hanging almost to the small of her back. When Finley’s hair fell out during chemotherapy, she consoled herself by braiding, curling, and styling Taylor’s hair. Taylor didn’t mind—she would have done anything to make her best friend happy—but now Finley is gone and even washing this much hair has become a pain.

  “Like how short?” Willa asks.

  “Super short. Chopped off.”

  “Are you sure? That’s a pretty drastic chan
ge.”

  “I feel like my life has been a series of drastic changes lately,” Taylor says. “And it’s bugging the crap out me.”

  Willa laughs. “Do you want me to come with you for moral support?”

  “You can go do the boring grocery shopping while I have someone massage my scalp and make me look amazing.”

  Willa pushes up the tip of her nose with her middle finger, then pedals off in the direction of the Winn-Dixie, while Taylor pauses to look up hair salons on her phone. The closest place is less than a quarter mile away, so she rides up, parks her bike, and steps inside.

  On her way back to the marina, Taylor can’t stop looking at herself in store windows, can’t stop running her fingers through her hair. It no longer flutters out behind her, and the air touches the back of her neck in a way it never has before. But Taylor didn’t just get a haircut; she had her hair color lightened to a pale blond, which makes her look like a completely different person—maybe the person she wants to be.

  She’s almost at the marina when her phone vibrates with a text. Hey, it’s Wyatt. I’m on a layover in Atlanta on my way to Brunswick. I’ll be there in a couple of hours and I want to surprise Willa. Can you help me?

  She stops to reply in front of a live music venue. A signboard beside the front door advertises a band called the Freecoasters. Tonight only. Taylor could call it divine providence or the hand of fate—or even belief in the unbelievable—but her heart feels as light as her hair as she texts Wyatt back. I have an idea.

  Once their plans are in place, Taylor returns to the marina. She’s walking up the dock when Willa spies her. She sits up to get a better look and her eyes bug out. “Oh my God, Taylor!” she cries. “You do look amazing. I had no idea you were planning to bleach it too.”

  “I wasn’t,” Taylor admits, stepping aboard the boat. “But the stylist talked me into it.”

  “That was such a good call. I love it.”

  “Thank you. Me too.” Unable to help herself, Taylor runs her fingers through her hair again. “Anyway, there’s a show tonight at a live music club in town. We’re going.”

  “I don’t know,” Willa says. “I’m exhausted and kinda just want to go check out the marina’s book exchange library.”

  Taylor shakes her head. “Did I mention we’re going to see a band tonight? Because that’s what we’re doing. We’ll have not-Hurricane Tacos here first, and we only have to stay for one set.”

  “God. Fine.” Willa sighs. “Did you pay the salon extra for the bossy attitude?”

  Taylor laughs. “They threw it in for free.”

  A couple of hours later, the girls are finished with dinner and dressed for a night out. Taylor is recycling the outfit she wore to the Sister Kismet concert and Willa’s wearing the red slip dress she bought at the thrift store in New York City. With her hair done up in a curly bun, she is absolutely beautiful, and if Wyatt’s mouth doesn’t hit the floor when he sees her, Taylor is going to kick his ass all the way back to North Carolina.

  She snaps a photo of Willa as she perches on the seat of her old battered cruiser bike wearing her dress and heels. Everything about the picture is perfect. The composition. The juxtaposition of glamorous and shabby. The rosy quality of the fading light. As Taylor uploads it to their Instagram, she knows this one will be off-the-charts popular.

  In town, they lock their bikes to a street sign in front of the club, where Wyatt is waiting outside. There are enough people milling around that Willa doesn’t see him at first. But when it hits her that Wyatt is standing in front of her in downtown Brunswick, she launches herself at him. He catches her up in his arms, holding her tight. With her face buried in his neck, Willa can’t see the expression on his face—like everything in his world is right—but Taylor can, and it makes her smile. This is a boy who is going to be a part of Willa’s life for a good long while—maybe even longer.

  As they enter the club, Willa and Wyatt are in their own little bubble, oblivious to everyone around them, including Taylor. She feels a tiny bit like a third wheel, but it’s a temporary condition. In just a few weeks, she’ll be at Kent State, where she might meet someone special. Or maybe not. But one of the things Whiskey Tango Foxtrot has taught her is that you get there when you get there. Leaving Willa and Wyatt in their love bubble, she moves toward the stage.

  The band comes out and takes up their instruments, and the lead singer is a blond woman wearing a tank top that says I’M NOT BOSSY, I’M THE BOSS. She straps on her guitar and steps up to the microphone.

  “Hello, Brunswick!” she says. “We are the Freecoasters from Fort Myers, Florida, and we waited out a hurricane to be with you tonight, so I’m going to need you to get out on the dance floor and show me your moves.”

  Taylor stakes her claim on a solo piece of dance floor until Willa takes her by the arm and pulls her right into the middle of the crowd.

  29.9012° N, 81.3124° W

  Stay young.

  Willa

  EVERYTHING IN WILLA’S WORLD IS right. Even though Wyatt has gone back to North Carolina, she had the chance to spend four whole days with him. They danced to the ska band in Brunswick. Sailed outside the ICW along Jekyll Island. Anchored inside Cumberland Island, where they camped overnight on the beach. And bodysurfed Atlantic Beach before Wyatt left from Jacksonville to go home. It wasn’t enough time, but it was better than no time at all.

  Now she and Taylor are back on their own, motoring steadily toward Finley’s next clue—“Stay young”—which can only mean the Fountain of Youth in St. Augustine. Except the closer they get, the more Taylor withdraws, and Willa has no idea why. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to go to the Fountain of Youth,” Taylor snaps.

  “Okay, so—”

  “And I’m angry that Finley would even make it a clue.” Taylor slides her fingertips beneath the bottom rim of her sunglasses to wipe her eyes. “She’s dead so she gets to stay seventeen forever, but we have to keep getting older and someday we’ll run out of memories of her. We can’t stay young, so I don’t want to go to some stupid tourist trap and pretend like it’s possible.”

  “Do you think it was intentional?”

  “I don’t know,” Taylor says. “Maybe she was just being cute, but I feel kind of manipulated. Like she came up with this whole list because she didn’t even trust us to grieve without her help.”

  “But here’s the thing . . . I read the same clue and it never occurred to me that our memories of Finley are finite,” Willa says. “It’s possible you’re giving her the credit for the work you’re doing.”

  Taylor’s mouth opens and closes as if she was going to speak and changed her mind. Then, “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Finley was a pretty insightful person, but she couldn’t actually see the future. Maybe we shouldn’t give her list that much power.”

  “I still don’t want to go to the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of gone cold for me too,” Willa says. “Do you want to skip St. Augustine and keep going?”

  She holds her breath as she waits for the answer. Willa would never force Taylor to visit a place that makes her uncomfortable, but Willa has been excited about St. Augustine since they first started talking about the trip.

  “No, it’s cool,” Taylor says. “I’d like to see the rest of the city. Just not the fountain.”

  They pick up a mooring ball in the harbor, and in the morning they take the dinghy ashore so they can explore St. Augustine. Willa and Taylor join the other tourists, wandering along St. George Street, a narrow pedestrian walkway that was once the main street of the old city. They poke around in gift shops, snap pictures of themselves in front of the oldest wooden schoolhouse in the United States, and eat empanadas on the grass beside the old city gates.

  As they walk down one of the side streets that border the old part of the city, Willa notices a small purple clapboard house w
ith yellow trim and flower boxes brimming with red flowers. It looks like it should be an antique shop or a teahouse, but a painted sign hanging over the porch steps, rimmed with a string of white lights, says SWEET MISERY TATTOOS. An older white woman with a thick bundle of dreadlocks comes out onto the front porch and waves at the girls as she waters the flowers. As they pass, Willa feels a pull in her belly, an inexplicable call to walk up the porch steps.

  “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?” she asks Taylor.

  “Not really. I mean, one time Finley decided that when we were all eighteen we were going to get Whiskey Tango Foxtrot signal flag tattoos.” Willa makes a horrified face and Taylor laughs. “I know, right? And at the time, all I could think about was how the tattoos would bind you and me together forever, which was unthinkably terrible. No offense.”

  “No, I understand.”

  “But we are bound together,” Taylor says. “By Finley, by this trip . . . by a freakin’ hurricane.”

  “Do you want to get a tattoo?”

  “What? Now?”

  “I mean, think about it. If we can survive a hurricane, we can survive anything . . . even losing Finley,” Willa says. “The tattoo will be a permanent reminder that there’s someone else out there in the world who knows how those things feel. That you’re not alone.”

  Taylor smiles as Willa throws her own words back at her, then gives her a hug. “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s go get a tattoo.”`

  They turn back toward Sweet Misery, where the woman is still watering her flower boxes. Willa notices that she’s wearing at least a dozen bangles on her right arm. Like a warrior’s gauntlet of silver. Like armor.

  “I had a feeling you might be back,” the woman says as they climb the stairs. “Come on in.”

  Bells jingle on the front door handle as they step into a living room that’s been converted to a waiting room, with a brown leather couch dotted with a rainbow of furry throw pillows, a cash register counter filled with body jewelry, and a coffee table swallowed up by tattoo magazines. The woman turns around, her patchouli scent enveloping them, making Willa’s nose twitch. “I’m Ellen. How can I help you, my darlings?”