Start Here

by Trish Doller

  Willa nods. “We’ll find another place.”

  But as they follow the bends and curves, there are no homes with docks like in South Carolina or town docks. There aren’t any towns. Willa consults the chart book again. “We’re running out of real estate. The only thing I see between here and the Atlantic is the Sapelo Island ferry dock.”

  “It will be dark soon,” Taylor says. “Let’s just go there.”

  The sun is nearing the horizon when they arrive at the south end of the island. The ferry pier is empty and the ticket office windows are boarded with plywood. There are a handful of cars in the parking lot, but no one is around. It reminds Willa of something out of a zombie movie, and she half expects the undead to come shambling out of the trees.

  “We’re closer to the ocean than we should be,” she says. “But hopefully we’ll be protected in the lee of the island.”

  Taylor looks doubtful. “Hopefully.”

  They’re somber as they tie up to the innermost dock, stretching lines out in every direction until it looks like Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is caught in a spiderweb. Willa uses the dinghy to set the anchor in the marshy shallows near shore. Once she’s back on board, they deflate the little boat and stow the outboard in a cockpit locker. Taylor takes out the speargun. “Just in case.”

  They walk a little way up the road to have a look around, but there’s nothing to see. There are no houses or shops or restaurants. The people who live on the island have either evacuated or are holed up in their homes, making it feel as though Willa and Taylor are utterly alone. The air is hot and dense in anticipation of the oncoming storm, and the first raindrops fall like tiny bombs. They run back to the boat as the drops turn to a downpour, soaking through to their skin.

  31.4178° N, 81.2958° W

  Believe the unbelievable.

  Taylor

  EVERY TIME SHE THINKS THIS is the hardest rain she’s ever experienced, Mother Nature—well, Hurricane Dorian—seems to prove Taylor wrong. For a while they were able to keep the hatches cracked to let the air circulate, but the cabin has become a sauna and they’ve stripped down to their bathing suits, trying to stay cool.

  Now the rain is coming down sideways and working really hard to get into the boat. It drips from windows they thought were watertight. Drips from the bolts on the ceiling where the mast connects to the deck. It vibrates the companionway hatch boards and sprays through the cracks between. All this, and the hurricane hasn’t even hit yet. Taylor peers out her (leaking) window into utter blackness and it feels like the world has vanished. She looks away, hating the feel of being so alone.

  “I figured out ‘Believe the unbelievable,’ ” she says, dropping onto her bunk, avoiding the growing damp spot.

  “Yeah?”

  It’s weird to actually be talking to Willa again. She wonders if this is temporary. “I think Finley wanted us to take a ghost tour of Charleston, or maybe Savannah.”

  They didn’t do anything noteworthy in either city—just docked, slept, ate, and kept on moving south. Taylor bought snow globes, but there aren’t any memories attached to them. They haven’t done anything memorable since North Carolina. It’s her own fault, and Taylor’s pretty sure getting caught in a hurricane is at least half her fault too. She should have been paying better attention to the weather instead of feeling sorry for herself. She feels a tiny surge of relief when the corner of Willa’s mouth hitches up and she nods.

  “That makes total sense. Finley always liked creepy, oddball stuff.”

  Finley had loved being scared. Stephen King. Horror movies. Even in elementary school her favorite books were the Goosebumps series. In middle school, Finley’s dad gave her a book called Weird Ohio, filled with scary urban myths. She wore out the pages—until she was old enough to drag her friends to find the actual places.

  “This one time we drove all the way to Cincinnati to see this tombstone.” Taylor rearranges herself on her bunk, trying to get more comfortable. “The story goes that when this man died, he wanted his eyes removed and put into the eye sockets of his bust.”

  “That’s . . . not possible.”

  Taylor rolls her eyes. “Urban myths can’t be killed with logic.”

  “Right,” Willa says, peeling the seal on a can of Pringles. She tilts it in Taylor’s direction, offering her the first chip. “I forgot you need salt, fire, and your dad’s old Impala.”

  Taylor barks a laugh at the reference to Supernatural, another of Finley’s favorite obsessions, along with any TV show about ghost hunters. “Anyway, the bust is supposed to watch you, and some say it will turn its head and even talk.”

  “Of course.”

  “So we found the grave,” Taylor continues. “The bust was made out of black stone, but the eyes looked super real. They were probably made of glass or something, but I swear to God it seemed like they were following us around the cemetery. It was so creepy.”

  “That’s how it was the time I went with her to Hell Town,” Willa says. “I think you were at your grandma’s house for the weekend, but we drove to Boston Mills to see this deserted town surrounded by a whole bunch of ridiculous myths. Like, one of the stories was that there had been a chemical spill and the people who refused to leave turned into mutants. Finley went there expecting to see disfigured people or evidence of a satanic ritual. Instead, it’s a bunch of old houses that were abandoned when they expanded the state park. It was kind of eerie, but that’s all.”

  Taylor nods. “Like Gore Orphanage.”

  “Or the time she made us wait all night to see the headless motorcyclist.”

  A gust of wind grabs the boat and shakes it, making them scream—and then crack up laughing. Outside the wind has started to howl, and it rattles the rigging so hard it sounds like a helicopter is hovering above the boat. As their laughter subsides, Willa’s expression turns serious. “I never believed any of that stuff, but if we make it through a hurricane, I might just believe the unbelievable.”

  Taylor’s smile fades and fear creeps back in. “If . . . ?”

  “We’ve done everything we can,” Willa says. “But what if it’s not enough? There are lots of things that could go wrong, and I’m afraid of them all.”

  Taylor has never heard Willa admit that she is scared, and it makes her wonder if she’s not frightened enough. “Should we go back to the shrimp docks? Or try to find something more inland?”

  “I don’t think we’d make it in time.”

  “Okay, so . . .” She tries to think like Willa. “Maybe we need to focus on what we can control. Are you hungry? We have tortillas, a can of chicken, some shredded cheese, and a tomato about to go bad. We could make Hurricane Tacos.”

  Willa’s smile is grim, but it’s still a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

  Taylor puts on a playlist of Finley’s favorite songs to drown out the howl of the wind, then braves the hatch board spray to get tortillas and chicken from the cupboard as Willa gets the tomato and a bag of cheese from the cooler. The wind strengthens outside, making the boat shudder violently, like an angry hand is trying to snatch Whiskey Tango Foxtrot from the dock and throw it out to sea. Taylor grabs for the overhead rail, and Willa grips the edge of the counter, her knuckles going white until the turbulence subsides.

  Cooking becomes a slower-than-normal process, but in the calm moments, they manage to assemble a dinner of chicken tacos. As they sit at the table to eat, it feels a tiny bit back to normal. Taylor takes a bite of her taco. The chicken is too salty, the cheese is bland, and the flour tortilla sticks so tightly to the roof of her mouth that she has to pry it free with her finger.

  “Gross.” She and Willa say the word at the same time, and when their eyes meet, they burst out laughing. They don’t speak; they just laugh until tears trickle from the corners of their eyes. Taylor’s sides feel like they might split apart and Willa is trying to catch her breath, but whenever they look at each other, it starts all over again.

  The boat heels over hard and the saucepan slides of
f the stove, splattering chicken all over the cabin floor. The sail bags slide around the v-berth, startling Pumpkin, who tries to jump in a sink full of soapy water. Their laughter dies as they’re reminded where they are, what is happening. “Are we going to be okay?”

  The roar of the storm nearly drowns out Willa’s voice as she says, “I don’t know.”

  “If, um—if we don’t—” Taylor doesn’t want to think about death, but she’s seen pictures of the aftermath of a hurricane. Flattened trees. Boats blown on land. Houses flattened into a pile of boards. “I just want you to know how sorry I am for what happened in North Carolina.”

  Willa doesn’t respond right away, and Taylor worries her apology is no longer good enough. If Willa can’t forgive her, she won’t be surprised.

  “I wonder why Finley thought we could be friends without her,” Willa says finally. “She was the glue. But there have been moments on this trip—lots of them, actually—when it seemed like she might have been right. It’s just—sometimes it feels like I’m Charlie Brown and you’re Lucy, and I never know when you’re going to pull the football away.”

  A tear trickles down Taylor’s nose, but this time it’s not from laughing. “I guess I was just hurt that you shared something that big with a stranger instead of me.”

  “But see, even now it’s not about you,” Willa points out. “I was planning to tell you, but I ended up telling Wyatt first. It wasn’t a deliberate choice, but it was my business and I shouldn’t have to defend it. You embarrassed me for no reason, Taylor, so what reason do I have to believe you won’t do it again?”

  Willa grabs a towel and wipes up the mess on the floor, leaving Taylor to wonder if their hurricane truce has been broken. Taylor washes the dishes, then makes a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as a replacement meal.

  “So . . . I think Finley hoped that the things we experienced on this trip would become the glue.” She hands Willa one of the sandwiches. “But maybe she also wanted us to have another person in the world who knows how it feels to miss her. If we have each other, we’ll never really be alone.”

  Willa takes a bite and just chews, not giving anything away. It’s torture not knowing what she’s thinking—and Taylor finds herself needing Willa’s forgiveness. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to be Lucy anymore. I’d kind of like to be Linus, but he’s the smart one like you. In reality, I’m probably the Charlie Brown.”

  Willa rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “If we don’t die out here in the middle of nowhere, I suppose I can give you one more chance.”

  “Hey, Taylor, can I ask you something?”

  The girls are huddled between the sail bags in the v-berth since the windows have leaked all over their beds. They should be trying to sleep, but the wind is screaming and the turbulence is almost constant. Pumpkin has taken refuge behind Taylor’s knees, and the weather radio jabbers in the background as Dorian closes in on the Atlantic coast. The storm is still predicted to make landfall north of Savannah, but the boat is within the wingspan. The worst is yet to come.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What’s it like kissing a girl?”

  Taylor’s face flushes as she remembers how effortless it was to kiss Vanessa. She didn’t have to pull back to keep from getting too much tongue, and Vanessa did this sexy, teasing thing against Taylor’s upper lip that made her kind of dizzy. “It was . . . Okay, so this might not make any sense at all, but it was kind of like kissing myself.”

  Willa’s eyebrows pull together. “What?”

  “With Brady, I sort of had to teach him what to do, but Vanessa just seemed to know exactly what I liked,” Taylor says. “Maybe it’s because we’re both girls—”

  “Maybe it’s because Brady Guerra kisses like a golden retriever.”

  “Wait.” Taylor’s eyebrows come together in confusion. “How do you know?”

  “Eighth grade. Your birthday party. In your mom’s closet,” Willa says. “Seven minutes of . . . well, heaven isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

  “He got a little better.”

  “How much better?”

  Taylor laughs. “Probably not much.”

  “Have you ever wanted to kiss me?”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  Willa laughs as she props her chin on her knees. “I’m just curious. I mean, why Finley? Why not me?”

  “Have you even seen yourself? You’re way too short.”

  “Hey!” Willa smacks Taylor with a throw cushion, sending the cat scampering. “I am adorable.”

  “You are,” Taylor agrees. “But I have never wanted to kiss you.”

  Willa sniffs. “Whatever. It’s your loss, really.”

  Taylor laughs, but in the quiet moment that follows, she tries to find the right words to answer the real question. Why Finley? Why not someone else? “From the very first day, Finley made me feel safe and special . . . and loved.”

  Willa nods. “Yeah. It was impossible not to love her back.”

  Pumpkin creeps back into the v-berth. Taylor rests her chin on her knees, mirroring Willa. “Why did you decide to withdraw from Case?”

  “I thought studying business was the smart thing to do,” Willa says. “I’d get a good job, make a lot of money, and would never have to worry about paying the electric bill. But now . . . I guess this trip made me realize that’s not what I want. I mean, I’d rather not be poor, but I want to see the world. Live in it. And . . . I want to write about it.”

  “So, are you really going to finish the loop alone?”

  Willa nods. “My plan is to spend the winter in Florida and get a job. I could wait tables, or there’s a pirate ship in Fort Myers. Maybe I can be a deckhand.”

  “You’d probably get hired in a hot minute,” Taylor says. “And you’d make a great pirate.”

  “You think?”

  “I mean, you’re a little short, but—” Willa smacks her again with the pillow. “I figured you’d go back to North Carolina to spend the winter with Wyatt.”

  “It’s super tempting,” Willa says. “But I have to keep my priorities straight if I’m going to reapply to Kenyon next fall. I’m kind of hoping he’ll do some of the loop with me.”

  “See . . . this is why I never wanted to kiss you. You’re way too cool for me.”

  Willa laughs. “Shut up.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, too,” Taylor says. “And I’ve decided on a major.”

  “Really?”

  Taylor has spent most of her life flying by the seat of her pants. She earned a solid B average in school and had no clear idea of what she wanted to do with her life. She applied to colleges along with everyone else, then crossed her fingers. Getting accepted into Kent State was good enough. It still is, but spending the summer behind the lens of her camera has given her a new perspective. “I’m going to study photography.”

  Willa nods like a bobblehead. “Yes! If your work is great now, just imagine how amazing you’re going to be. Someday you’ll be famous!”

  “Calm down. I haven’t even started college yet.”

  “Once this storm is over—”

  Whatever Willa was going to say is swallowed when another huge gust slams into the boat. The boat tilts, and Taylor falls against Willa. This time, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot does not right itself.

  “What just happened?”

  “The storm must be getting close,” Willa says, easing herself carefully out of the berth. The slant of the floor makes it difficult for her to walk as she reaches for her weather jacket. “The water level has dropped. We’re sitting on bottom.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to make sure all of the lines are still holding.”

  Taylor’s eyes go wide. “Now?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “Maybe sit in the cockpit . . . just in case.”

  Rain pours into the cabin as Willa slides
back the companionway hatch. They’re not even in the cockpit before they’re smacked in the face by wind and water, making it difficult to see.

  “Wait here!” Taylor shouts. “I have an idea.”

  Willa

  WILLA FEELS RIDICULOUS WEARING A dive mask, but the rain is coming down so hard that she would be blind otherwise. And Taylor is a genius for coming up with the idea.

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is leaning 45 degrees toward the dock and the lines on that side of the boat have gone slack. Leaving Taylor in the cockpit, she creeps slowly along the tilted deck, stopping with every gust of wind that threatens to send her over the edge. She holds tight to the lifeline until it’s safe to move again. The rain stings her exposed skin and soaks through her weather jacket. It’s almost six in the morning, but the clouds make it seem like it’s still night.

  At the bow, Willa discovers that the bikes are still secure, but the dock line running from the boat to the ferry pier has broken. Captain Norm warned them to stay on the boat, so she considers ignoring the problem. Except it needs to be fixed.

  “We need another dock line!” she yells back at Taylor, but her words get swept away.

  Willa slowly works her way back to the cockpit, where she rummages through the storage locker for one more length of rope.

  “A line snapped and we need to replace it,” she yells to Taylor. “Do you want to stay on the boat or go up on the pier?”

  Taylor points to the pier, and Willa gives her the okay sign. Taylor shimmies beneath the lifeline on the low side of the boat and steps onto the floating dock. The wind tries to push her backward as Taylor forces herself forward. Her hood flies back, making her hair whip wildly around her face.

  Both of them fight their way into position. Willa ties off one end of the rope, then tosses the other end to Taylor. The wind snatches it away, and Willa has to gather it back up to try again. On her next attempt, she tries to factor in the wind, but again they miss. Three times. Four times. The rope is heavy with muddy water. Five times. Six times. Willa can barely see through the rain-splattered mask.