by Trish Doller
Campbell Nicholson is a literal genius who dropped out of Cornell after his freshman year with no real explanation. Now he spends his days holding a SLOW sign at highway construction zones and his nights getting stoned with his friends, just like he did in high school. Willa can only dream of having the kind of privilege Campbell tosses so casually aside. She doesn’t understand making that choice. Just like she can’t understand why her mother takes one low-paying job after another instead of wanting something more. If Willa learned anything from Finley it’s that you get only so many trips around the sun. Why would you waste them?
Willa cocks her head, trying to play it cool. “What are you doing on my boat?”
His grin widens. “Come aboard and I’ll show you.”
Willa ignores the hand Cam offers as she steps off the dock, but in the cockpit he stands so close she can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. She fists her fingers to keep from touching him.
“So, you saw the name, right?” Campbell asks.
Willa nods.
“Finley asked me to do it,” he says. “Also, the outboard had a little stutter I wanted to check before you left. I think it’s fixed.”
These tiny moments of sweetness are the ones that make Willa want him, even when she knows he is not for her. “Thank you.”
Cam ducks through the companionway and beckons her to follow. “There’s more.”
Down in the cabin, he’s looped strings of tiny white lights around the handrails above the bunks. And on the low half walls that separate the main cabin from the v-berth at the front of the boat, Campbell taped little doodles of Taylor and Willa with Shakespeare quotes written beneath.
For Taylor: What is past is prologue.
For Willa: Though she be but little, she is fierce.
She touches her fingertips to the doodle, tracing the black Sharpie bun on the top of her black Sharpie head. He’s even drawn the baby curls that won’t stay in.
The quote is from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her favorite. Willa has always loved words, but this was the play that made her fall in love with language, with story. When she received her acceptance e-mail from Kenyon College, she entertained a brief fantasy of being the next Emily Gould and walking the same halls that John Green and Ransom Riggs had walked. Then she tucked it away—in the same place she kept her inexplicable attraction to Cam—and enrolled at Case Western as a business major. Studying business was smarter. Better. Even though Campbell has no way of knowing any of this, it feels as though he’s been rummaging around in Willa’s brain, and she doesn’t like it.
“How did you know I’d come?” she asks.
He cocks his head, his brows furrowing as if the question is absurd. “Because you’re Willa.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You always do the right thing.”
She’s not sure if she should consider that an insult or a compliment, so she doesn’t reply. Especially when she’s not sure if this is the right thing.
Willa’s original plan for the summer was to work as many hours as possible at Plato’s Closet. Her college scholarships would cover the major expenses, but she needs her own laptop. She wanted to hit up garage sales to find a dorm fridge, get started on her fall reading, and try to figure out how life works without Finley. Despite Willa’s deathbed promise, spending the entire summer on a boat with Taylor Nicholson was never really part of the plan.
Then two things happened that changed her mind.
First, Willa delivered her valedictory address to the tops of people’s heads while they thumbed through their commencement programs and played games on their phones, and the feeling she’d wasted the past thirteen years snaked through her like a strangler vine. There were no trophy cases for valedictorians. She would not leave a lasting impression. The only reward for all of her hard work would be four more years of hard work, and the thought of that made her want to cry.
Afterward, Willa went home and slept fifteen hours—right through Taylor’s graduation party and straight on into the following day. When she woke, Willa found an instant photo lying on the edge of her bed. It was the one Taylor took a couple of months before Finley died. She’d been almost bald from chemo, so they all wore silly wigs—and Taylor snapped three shots, one for each of them. It was their last sleepover, but also the night Willa and Taylor swore to take the trip without Finley. The tape on the back of the picture must have come unstuck in the night, but it felt as though Finley had left it on Willa’s bed to say, “Suck it up, buttercup. You promised.”
Now Willa crosses her arms and levels a serious look at Campbell. “I’m not here for your sister.”
“Doesn’t matter why you’re here.” He shifts closer, and the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end. Sparks dance under her skin. She wishes she could control her body’s response to him, but she can’t. “Only that you are . . . honey girl.”
Her mom’s favorite term of endearment lands like a bucket of cold water. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No. I swear, Willa. I’m not.”
“I’m not your honey girl.” She moves away, ignoring him as she drops her duffel on the bunk below the Willa doodle. She’s slightly annoyed he gave Taylor the bunk that slides out into a double, but Taylor is almost a foot taller than Willa. To be fair, she needs the bigger space.
“You could be,” Campbell says.
“No,” she says. “I could not.”
For most of her friendship with Taylor, Cam was just part of the landscape. An unofficial big brother. A solid pair of shoulders to sit on during chicken fights in the Nicholsons’ pond.
Until one night last summer.
Willa and Finley were doing a marathon watch of an old sci-fi TV series called Firefly when Finley suddenly burst into tears. Her voice cracked as she said, “I can’t do this anymore, Willa. I just want to die.”
Willa wrapped her arms around Finley and held her tight, blinking back her own tears. “Please don’t say that. You can’t give up when you’re almost done.”
Finley’s chemo and radiation left her exhausted, and with a host of other side effects that made her feel even worse. But she had only a couple of weeks before the treatment would be over.
“I’ve pooped so much today I might as well start wearing adult diapers,” Finley said. “And right this minute I feel like I’m going to puke.”
Willa poked her side. “If you vomit on me, our friendship is over.”
Finley sniffled a laugh as she wiped her eyes with the cuffs of her pajama top. “I’m sorry for bringing down the room. I just—sometimes I can’t be strong.”
“No one expects that from you, Finley. Some days are going to be shitty.” Willa crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Literally and figuratively.”
Finley laughed. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. Especially when I have an idea that will make you feel better. Hand over your phone.”
Willa had never actually needed his services, but everyone knew Campbell Nicholson was the go-to guy for any illicit thing a person could want. Drugs. Alcohol. When it came to fake IDs, Cam was the juvenile delinquent version of Jason Bourne. Willa had read about cancer patients smoking pot to keep pain and nausea at bay—and if anyone could get his hands on some weed, it would be Cam.
She scrolled through Finley’s contacts until she found his number, then sent him a text. It’s Willa. Finley’s having a rough night. She needs . . . something.
It was a Friday night and Campbell was sure to be at Ben Mantey’s party, but fifteen minutes later he strolled into Finley’s bedroom with a bag of weed in his pocket. Cam rolled a joint, and they propped themselves against the wall beneath Finley’s open bedroom window, getting high and playing Would You Rather . . . ? until Finley fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.
“Thanks for coming to help,” Willa said after they tucked Finley back into her bed. “That was really . . . sweet.”
“You seem surprised.”
“
Maybe a little,” Willa admitted. “I figured you were busy.”
“I’m never too busy for Fin.” He leaned in so close that Willa almost thought he would kiss her, and her heart stopped beating. Instead, he grinned. “Need a ride home?”
She’d planned to spend the night, but Finley was finally comfortable and deeply asleep. “If it’s not out of your way.”
“Grab your stuff.”
Willa left a note and followed him out to the truck. The bench seat was covered with a striped Mexican serape, and mounted in the dashboard was an old-fashioned radio with tuning knobs instead of preset buttons. She focused on those things—things she loved about his truck—instead of the jittery feeling of being alone with Campbell. Willa had no reason to be nervous—he was Taylor’s brother—but she was not completely oblivious to his good looks. Or that Finley had been crushing on him since the beginning of time. As he swung up into the truck, the space suddenly felt too small.
“Relax, little Willa,” Cam said as he started the engine. “I don’t bite.”
He clicked on the radio, and they listened to the Indians game on WLEC as they headed down the Chaussee and across the Causeway. Instead of turning onto First Street, Cam drove to the Dairy Queen and pulled up to the drive-through menu.
“Blizzard?” he asked.
“Um . . . sure. Butterfinger. Small.”
Campbell ordered for both of them, and when they had their ice cream, he drove Willa the rest of the way home. He pulled into a parking space in the lot outside her apartment and cut the engine. “I have to tell you . . . I had you pegged as a cookie dough girl.”
She laughed. “I think you’re confusing me with Finley.”
“I’m definitely not confused.”
She glanced in his direction and her smile slipped. He wasn’t looking at her like she was one of his sister’s friends. He was staring. Willa’s gaze bounced away—to the radio, to her backpack on the floor, and finally, out the window. Anywhere but at Campbell. Her face burned with pleasure and shame, and she had no idea where to put all this brand-new, not-wholly-unwelcome attraction.
“So, um . . . ,” she began, changing the subject. “Big plans for tomorrow?”
“Farm stand in the morning, beach in the afternoon. Want to come?”
“I have to work.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” The lie killed her appetite for ice cream, and for a split second she hated Finley Donoghue. Then she hated herself. She opened the truck door. “Thanks again for helping with Finley. I really—”
Campbell cut her off with a kiss. His mouth was soft and tasted like vanilla ice cream, and she really wanted to kiss him back. Instead, she pulled away.
“This . . . can’t happen.”
“Willa.”
“I won’t hurt Finley like that. Not when she’s sick. Not ever.”
She ran up the stairs to her apartment and went straight to her room, but the memory of kissing Cam kept her awake all night. In the morning, her phone chimed with a text from Finley. Tell me last night wasn’t a dream. Campbell was in my bedroom, right?
Yep, Willa responded, her face burning with betrayal. It was real.
“Willa.” Cam reaches for her now, his fingertips on her hip as he takes a step closer. She has tried so hard to stay away from him. Out of respect for Finley’s feelings. And because there’s no room in Willa’s future for a guy like him. But even now she still wants him. Fire rushes through her veins, and when he licks his lower lip, she leans in. Then the boat sways and Campbell steps back.
“Cam?” Taylor comes into the cabin carrying her cat, Pumpkin, and her eyes narrow when she sees Willa. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I guess.”
This day has been circled on their calendars for two years, ever since Finley suggested they pool their money to buy a cheap sailboat and spend their post-graduation summer sailing from Sandusky to Key West.
“There’s no such thing as a cheap sailboat,” Willa pointed out at the time, but Finley waved her hand like Obi-Wan Kenobi and said the right boat would appear when they needed it.
Like magic, Taylor’s dad was taking a shortcut on a back road in Lorain County when he spotted an old Mirage 25 sitting in someone’s barn. The paint had faded to a chalky yellow and the name was almost completely worn away, but the hull was sound. And the price was cheap, relatively speaking. Willa’s share took a considerable bite out of her college savings, but she paid it because she knew it would be worth it. Like sailing to Kelleys in an eight-foot dinghy.
It was also pretty magical that their parents agreed to the trip. Willa wanted to believe it was because the Force was strong in Finley, but the truth was that they were the kind of girls who didn’t give their parents reasons not to trust them. And because they’d never be so far out of cell phone range that they couldn’t call home in an emergency.
“Why did you change your mind?” Taylor demands now.
“I thought you might need my help,” Willa says, earning a sharp glare. Sometimes talking to Taylor is like stepping on gum. They’re not even two minutes into summer and Taylor’s hackles are already up. Two months is going to feel like an eternity if Willa has to measure the weight of every single word. “I just mean—you were right. We have to do what Finley wanted. So I’m all in.”
Taylor’s stance softens, and she nods her approval.
“I, um—” Willa moves toward the steps to go fetch the rest of her gear, but the boat sways again and Taylor’s mom crowds into the small cabin. She beams at Willa, and the exclamation marks are practically visible in the air as she says, “Willa! Thank goodness you’re here! You girls are going to have such a wonderful summer!”
Mrs. Nicholson is one of those unflaggingly cheerful sorts, who always sees the glass half full. She still believes Taylor and Willa are the best of friends, even though that hasn’t been technically true since the summer before high school, when Finley chose Willa—instead of Taylor—to be her crew on the junior race team. Taylor was convinced Willa had poisoned Finley against her. Rather than talking it out, Taylor quit the sailing team and stopped hanging out with Willa unless Finley was there as a buffer between them.
“It’s going to be great.” Willa puts more conviction into her words than she actually feels. She steals a glance at Taylor, and what passes between them is an unspoken if we don’t kill each other first.
Taylor
TAYLOR HAS BEEN AROUND SAILBOATS her entire life. Her granddad was the commodore of the sailing club back in the 1970s, and her parents have always owned a boat. According to family legend, her mom and dad went out for a sail on the day her oldest brother, Carter, was born, and her mom almost had to give birth in the middle of Sandusky Bay. The tale has gotten taller with time and telling—her mom didn’t actually almost give birth on a boat—but sailing is definitely in Carter’s blood. H2O-positive. His dream is to sail with Oracle Team USA in the America’s Cup, and it constantly gets under his skin that Cam’s trophies and awards—Campbell won so, so many of them as a junior sailor—are collecting dust in the attic.
The sailing gene must have skipped Taylor because she doesn’t understand the physics of wind and water. She forgets everything during the winter, so when summer rolls around, she feels ignorant and left out. Even worse, sometimes she gets seasick. Taylor prefers land-based sports, especially volleyball. She played on the varsity team all four years of high school, and the volleyball court was the one place she didn’t feel like a freak. Objectively, she knows she’s not actually a freak—the US Olympic volleyball team is loaded with women over six feet tall—but Taylor is glad she finally topped out at six one.
Her growth spurt in fifth grade had been particularly rough. Almost overnight she went from tall to tallest, towering over her mother, her teacher, and all the boys in her class. Jared Fantozzi started calling her Hagrid—until Finley threatened to punch him in the face. Finley was sent home from school for bullying another
student, but that kind of loyalty was what drove Taylor to save her farm stand earnings to help pay for a boat even when she didn’t really enjoy sailing. She sanded, varnished, and painted because Finley was worth it. And even after she died, Taylor was bound by a promise she had no intention of breaking. Not like Willa, who bailed almost immediately.
Everyone was returning to their cars after the inurnment ceremony at the cemetery when Willa and Taylor met up in front of Finley’s little vault. Taylor couldn’t even look at it without welling up. She hated the idea of Finley being all by herself in a cold, dark marble box. She wished the Donoghues had added some of Finley’s favorite things, like the one-eyed teddy bear she swore she didn’t sleep with anymore. Or her pink cardigan with the rhinestone buttons. Or the pictures from the bulletin board in her bedroom. That day, it made sense that ancient Egyptians buried their pharaohs with all their possessions. Forever is such a long time to be alone.
“This sucks.” Willa tugged her black jacket a little tighter around her body and shivered. Even though it was April, there were still small mounds of unmelted snow on the grass. As if spring didn’t want to bloom in a world without Finley Donoghue.
Finley had kept a list of things she wanted at her funeral, like a bonfire on the beach with music and fireworks. She’d wanted her ashes planted in a living urn that grew into a tree or launched into space to become a shooting star. The one thing Finley had not wanted was for her family and friends to stand around the beige common room at church, eating dry ham sandwiches with plain yellow mustard and talking about how she was in a better place. Taylor knew funerals were meant for the living, but Finley deserved fireworks. “We have to go to Key West.”
“Taylor, listen—” Willa took a deep breath, and Taylor was absolutely certain she didn’t want to hear what would come next. “This trip is going to take the entire summer, and I really need to save money for Case.”
Anger boiled up inside Taylor. “God, you’re just as bad as everyone else. You promised.”
“What was I supposed to say? She was dying.”