by Trish Doller
“Maybe so, but this boy is going to take us in his boat to see wild horses.”
“His name better not be Glenn.”
Willa laughs. “Actually, his name is Wyatt, and Taylor . . . ? He’s wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Get a little wild.’ ”
Taylor is silent for a beat, then, “That just gave me chills.”
“I know, right? But there’s no way Finley could have planned this. She couldn’t have known.”
“No,” Taylor agrees. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not fate.”
They quickly load a tote bag with bottles of water, sunscreen, towels, and all of Taylor’s cameras before heading to Wyatt’s skiff. He’s talking on the phone as they approach.
“He is seriously cute,” Taylor whispers.
“Dibs,” Willa whispers back.
Taylor laughs. “Easy tiger. I’m just enjoying the scenery.”
“Gotta go,” Wyatt says into the phone, then disconnects the call. He looks a little surprised, as if he didn’t expect Willa to come back. He smiles at her, then aims his attention at Taylor. Willa gnaws the end of her thumbnail. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might prefer tall and blond to short and brown, but now she can’t unthink it.
“You must be Taylor,” he says.
“That’s me.” Taylor steps down into the boat. “But before we go anywhere with you, I’m going to need to see your driver’s license.”
He digs into the back pocket of his striped tan board shorts and hands over his wallet. “Of course you are.”
“Thanks for humoring her,” Willa says as Wyatt helps her into the skiff. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, and the butterflies in her stomach go a little crazy. He doesn’t throw her off-kilter the way Campbell did. Mostly because when Wyatt smiles, he’s all dimples and sincerity.
“He has a library card,” Taylor announces. “No condoms. Ooh! Who’s the beautiful girl in this picture?”
Willa’s heart does an elevator drop, but he just dimples up and rolls his eyes. “That’s my nana.”
Taylor laughs as she hands back the wallet. “It’s a little weird that you keep a picture of your grandma in your wallet, but it’s also very sweet. Which is good news for you, Wyatt James Kennedy. Unless you have a girlfriend.”
His eyes meet Willa’s. “I don’t.”
“Perfect,” Taylor says, claiming the bench in front of the steering console so Willa can sit beside the cute boy. “Just be warned—the last guy who messed with us was introduced to the business end of speargun.”
Willa covers her face with her hands, trying not to laugh. She loves this Taylor, who is funny and protective at the same time. She feels like a friend. Maybe like a best friend.
“Not gonna lie,” Wyatt says. “I’m a little scared of you right now.”
“We’re harmless,” Willa says. “Mostly. It’s a long story.”
He shrugs one shoulder as he turns the key to start the engine. “I’ve got all day.”
Wyatt pulls the skiff alongside a small pier that juts out from an empty lot covered with grass-speckled sand and shrubby pines. The trip across the bay was fast, windy, and too loud to talk, but here it’s quiet, except for the birds singing in the trees. He leads the girls across the property to a topless black Jeep. “My parents own this land. Eventually they’re going to build a summer rental here, but for now . . .”
“It’s beautiful.” Willa climbs into the back of the Jeep and sits on an upturned five-gallon bucket so Taylor can have the front-seat legroom.
Wyatt grins at Willa in the rearview mirror. “It gets better.”
He backs off the lot and heads down an unpaved sand road, past an elevated rental house with multiple wraparound decks. An SUV is parked under the stilts, and a bunch of kids are splashing around in a pool behind the house. “So right now we are just north of Corolla in Carova, which is basically the end of civilization on the Outer Banks,” Wyatt explains. “We don’t have any shops or restaurants or even roads up here. Just miles of beach and our herd of wild horses.”
At the corner, he turns north. The houses to their right are closest to the beach, separated from the ocean by dunes. Every now and then, Willa catches a glimpse of blue water between the hills of sand.
“The first appearance of the wild colonial Spanish mustangs dates back about five hundred years,” Wyatt says. “One theory is that they were abandoned by Spanish explorers who tried to settle the area but were chased out by the local natives. Another is that they swam ashore during a shipwreck of an English cargo ship on its way to the colonies from the Caribbean.”
He pulls into a sand “driveway” toward a three-level house sided with brown wooden shingles. It’s not as huge as some of the beachfront houses they passed, but it has the same wraparound decks on every level.
“Either way, most of the horses on the Outer Banks are descendants of those mustangs,” Wyatt continues. “But the Corolla herd has reproduced almost exclusively within the herd for nearly five centuries, so they’re genetically closest to the originals.”
They climb a flight of wooden steps to the elevated front porch, and Wyatt pushes open the door.
“This is my house,” he says, dropping his car keys on a table beside the door. The open living room is painted sunshine yellow, except for one wall filled with windows overlooking the ocean. “And today it’s the perfect place to see the horses for two reasons. First, the wind is blowing in the right direction to bring them to the beach. And second . . .”
Wyatt opens a glass door leading out onto the back deck. Behind the house, almost close enough to touch, are six mustangs, grazing on sea oats. Willa’s breath catches in her throat and Taylor gasps.
“. . . they love our backyard.”
Taylor dives for her digital camera from the bottom of the beach bag as Willa rests her elbows on the deck railing. The horses are varying shades of brown—tawny, chestnut, russet, and chocolate. Small and stocky and shaggy and utterly gorgeous.
“Finley would be losing her mind right now,” she says.
Finley always loved animals, but after she was confined to a hospital bed, she spent hours watching videos of baby sloths getting baths and rescue dogs finding their forever homes. She’d laughed for days over a video of a horse squeaking a rubber chicken. Taylor glances at Willa, and they exchange a knowing smile.
“I could give you the full tour spiel, but it’s actually my day off,” Wyatt says. “And watching is better than talking.”
“Does this happen a lot?” Willa asks.
“Yep.”
“Does it ever get old?”
“My mom is a vet who works with the Corolla Wild Horse Fund,” Wyatt says. “And my dad owns the tour company I work for, so we’d be in big trouble if it got old. But it really doesn’t. The mustangs don’t belong to us, but they’re ours . . . if that makes sense. We love them.”
The tenderness in his voice makes Willa’s heart thump extra hard, makes her want to reach for him. But that would be silly when she’s only just met him. Instead, she curls her fingers into her palms and watches the horses shuffle slowly over the dune, nickering softly as they munch sea oats and fallen persimmons from the Kennedys’ tree.
Wyatt leans on the railing, his elbow resting lightly against hers. His voice is soft, with a note of wonder, as he says, “Where did you come from?”
Willa tells him the whole story, beginning with their promise to Finley and the list of clues. She omits the part about Campbell. He’s not irrelevant—after all, if he hadn’t pushed her away, she might not be here right now—but maybe he doesn’t deserve to be part of the story anymore. She talks about the Hurricane Deck at Niagara Falls, the storm in New York City, nearly getting arrested in Atlantic City, and the speargun incident on their way from Norfolk. She even tells Wyatt about meeting Captain Norm.
“The next clue on Finley’s list was ‘Get a little wild,’ ” Willa explains. “We have no idea if she picked that phrase to reference wild horses, or if she res
earched tour companies and found yours, but when I saw your shirt . . .”
“I’m definitely okay with giving Finley credit,” he says, beckoning the girls to follow him down the narrow boardwalk built over the dune that leads down to the beach. “How long are you staying?”
“We’re leaving in the morn—”
“What do you do around here for the Fourth of July?” Taylor interrupts.
“We’re having a barbecue here at the house tomorrow,” he says. “My friends and I usually set up a Slip ’N Slide on the beach and surf if there’s decent swell. At dusk, we’ll take boats down the sound to see the fireworks at Corolla. We have a guest room, and I’m pretty sure my parents wouldn’t mind if you joined us.”
“We haven’t slept in real beds since Niagara Falls,” Taylor points out as they kick off their flip-flops at the end of the boardwalk. “So you can count me in.”
Before Willa can say yes, a chocolate-brown horse drops onto the sand and rolls around on its back, just a few yards away from where a family has set up their lounge chairs for a day at the beach. Even though she knows Finley had nothing to do with it, being here seems magical. Fated. Willa looks up at Wyatt and smiles. “We’re definitely staying.”
Taylor crouches low, like a real photographer, her camera whirring with every shot. They’re quiet as the horses in the water come out and shake, sending spray into the air around them. At moments like this Willa wishes she hadn’t thrown her phone into Lake Erie. She could be taking pictures of wild mustangs. She could be putting Wyatt’s phone number in her contacts for later, when she’s in South Carolina or Tennessee or Michigan. Because Wyatt seems like the kind of boy you keep.
“Willa,” he says. “I would really like to take you out on a date.”
The last word has barely left his lips when she says, “I’d love that.”
Taylor
Brady: How’s it going, stranger?
Taylor: Hey, hi!
Brady: Your pictures today are incredible.
Taylor: Thanks.
Brady: How’s the trip going? Are you figuring out how life works without Finley?
Taylor: Slowly, but yeah.
Brady: It doesn’t look like you and Willa have gone full Hunger Games yet.
Taylor: Ha! We’ve discovered that we actually kind of like each other.
Brady: That’s good.
Taylor: It is. How are you?
Brady: I’m figuring out how life works without Taylor.
Taylor: And?
Brady: I have a date tomorrow night.
Taylor: Good. I hope she deserves you.
Brady: Thanks. Night, Tay.
Taylor: Night, B.
Vanessa: Those horse pictures are so gorgeous. I almost feel like I’m there.
Taylor: Willa’s on a date right now, so I kinda wish you were.
Vanessa: Did she ditch you again!?
Taylor: This time it’s cool. Pumpkin and I are lying on a giant porch swing overlooking the ocean. And Willa is out with a guy who won’t break her heart.
Vanessa: It sounds like the two of you are in a better place.
Taylor: Definitely. I’ll call you in a few minutes.
Campbell: Where are you?
Taylor: Outer Banks
Campbell: I was thinking about hopping a ride. What’s the closest airport?
Taylor: Why?
Campbell: Why what?
Taylor: Why do you want to hop a ride with us?
Campbell: Cabin fever. And I wouldn’t mind seeing Willa again.
Taylor: Nope. You had your chance and you blew it.
Campbell: What do you mean?
Taylor: You took advantage of her feelings and then hurt her by showing up in NY with another girl. Willa really liked you.
Campbell: Past tense?
Taylor: Right now she’s on a date with a guy who is worthy of her.
Campbell: That’s kind of harsh. You’re my sister.
Taylor: That’s why they call it tough love.
Willa
WYATT PULLS A WIRE MESH trap out of the water at the end of his parents’ pier on the Currituck Sound side of Carova. Inside are at least a dozen crabs. Willa is wearing the same red sundress she wore to the drive-in with Campbell—hoping to attach a better memory to it—but now she wonders if she might be overdressed for this date. “What exactly are we doing?”
“The market price for blue crabs is really high in restaurants this time of year,” Wyatt says, tossing one of the animals back into the water. “So we’re going to bring a few of these guys to my friend, who will cook them for us.”
Wyatt keeps nine of the crabs, putting them in a red plastic bucket he stows in the back of his Jeep. They drive down the beach until they reach the paved road marking the end of the protected area for the wild mustangs. The beginning of civilization. The beach houses in Corolla are closer together, and they pass boutique shops and a few restaurants before Wyatt turns onto a smaller road. He parks in front of a shabby-looking red wooden shack called Number One Jimmies.
Beside the restaurant is a handful of picnic tables with strings of lights crisscrossing overhead that will be prettier when it’s dark. Beach music spills out through the front screen door as Wyatt holds it open for Willa.
“This place is so great,” she says.
“It gets better.”
Inside, the walls are painted white and hung with old sepia photos of crabbers and their boats. There are no tables, only a blackboard menu featuring nothing but seafood and an order window.
Willa smiles. “You’ve said that before.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I?” Wyatt says. “So trust me on this.”
A white guy comes out of the kitchen wearing a red Number One Jimmies T-shirt with a dirty apron double-tied around his waist. He’s a few years older than Willa, and Wyatt introduces him as Mike. After the nice-to-meet-you pleasantries, Mike asks, “What’d you bring me?”
“Half a dozen jimmies and a couple of sooks that’ll be good for cakes,” Wyatt says, handing him the bucket. “Steam up the four fattest for us, and you can keep the rest.”
“You want some shrimp?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Was that English you were speaking?” Willa asks as she follows Wyatt to a table outside. “Because I couldn’t understand a word of it.”
“Jimmies are male crabs,” he explains, sitting down across from her. “Sooks are females. And the number is the size equivalent. So, number one jimmies are the biggest, meatiest males. Number twos are smaller males that are less meaty, but still desirable. Threes are the smallest, usually female.”
“That sounds sexist.”
Wyatt waves his white paper napkin like a surrender flag. “No social implications here. Just crab physiology.”
In the hours since they met this morning, Willa has discovered there’s more to this boy than a handsome face. She likes the way his brain works and his sense of humor, and the way he seems completely at ease with his place in the world. Still, she really likes his face a whole lot. “What happens now?”
“Mike’s going to steam our jimmies with shrimp, red potatoes, corn on the cob, sweet onions, and some andouille sausage,” he says. “And then we’re going to eat ourselves into a coma.”
“After a month of living mostly on rice, Top Ramen, and instant mac and cheese, I am down for this,” she says. “I almost feel bad for leaving Taylor behind.”
“I don’t feel bad at all.”
Willa falters as she realizes she had a similar conversation with Campbell when they went to the movies in Minetto, but she reminds herself that this is not the same. Taylor practically pushed her out the door—and Wyatt is nothing like Campbell.
She smiles. “I said almost.”
“Willa,” he says. “Would you mind if I move to that side of the table so I can kiss you?”
“How fast can you get over here?”
Wyatt drops backward onto the bench beside her and l
eans over, touching his fingertips to the baby curls at the nape of her neck as their lips meet. The first kiss is fleeting, barely a kiss at all, but his mouth immediately returns for a second. Then a third.
“I’m glad you showed up on the gas dock this morning and confused me into hanging out with you,” he says, touching his forehead against hers.
“It really was some of my best work.”
He drags his teeth across his lower lip as though he’s deciding whether to kiss her again. When he does, the tip of his tongue teases her mouth, and she parts her lips to deepen the kiss. She ignores the quiet niggling thought that they should not be making out at a restaurant, but kissing Wyatt Kennedy might just be her new favorite thing. When he pulls back, he grins. “I used to think it was weird when couples sat on the same side of the table, but I get it now.” He pivots on the bench so they’re facing the same direction. “I’m looking forward to elbowing you while we eat.”
“I don’t know how I’ve lived eighteen years without blue crabs in my life,” Willa says as they lay side by side on a plaid blanket. She was a little nervous when Wyatt took the blanket from the back of his Jeep and spread it on the ground in the middle of his parents’ empty lot, but this is not half naked in the woods; this is looking at the stars in a sky untouched by light pollution. “I will never forget that dinner.”
Mike had come out of the shack with a stainless-steel pot and upended the contents onto the butcher paper-covered table. No plates. No utensils, except for a wooden mallet. Willa and Wyatt had dug into the pile, smashing open the crabs to pick out the sweet meat, peeling the skins off the shrimp with their fingers, and challenging each other to see how fast they could eat the corn off the cob. They’d laughed a lot. Talked more. Kissed each other with buttery lips.
And now that they’re alone beneath the cloudless night sky, Willa feels secure knowing that holding this boy’s hand is enough for both of them.
“I told you it got better,” Wyatt says.
“I’m going to have to introduce you to Lake Erie perch,” she says.